


The Music of the Ainur

by OurPaleCompanion



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Tolkien - Fandom
Genre: ANCIENT ASTRONAUTS, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Brothers, Dreams, Elves, Gen, Hard Sci-fi, Middle Earth, Prophecy, Retelling, Science Fiction, Space Opera, Terraforming, Valar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 130,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurPaleCompanion/pseuds/OurPaleCompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five-and-a-half millennia after leaving their home galaxy, the crew of the city-sized seeding ship Iluvátar reach their goal - a sunless primordial planet, waiting to be turned into a new homeworld. But Chief Engineer Melkor has his own designs for "Arda Project", and his megalomania threatens to doom them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 1

_"This is the mission log of Captain Eru of the Iluvátar seeding ship. The crew has been awakened 5,530 Ain years into our mission, due to the proximity of a planet matching our specifications. GRG-543 is a rogue planet of approximately 0.89 Ain mass, 1.3 Ain gravity, and with most of the necessary preliminary raw materials. I've given the order for terraforming to go ahead immediately and begun the process to select officers and crewmen to occupy the planet and begin a new Ainur colony. I am designating this mission 'Arda Project', and the planet is to be referred to as such forthwith. Next log entry in 95 hours. Eru, Iluvátar."_

Silver-black satellites punctuated the shimmering blue forcefield surrounding the planet, their bright white beams distorted by the wall of energy. They dotted the upper atmosphere as far as the eye could see, blasting the molten red surface with streams of liquid nitrogen, calcium plasma, gaseous iron; the basic building blocks of a habitable planet. A hundred miles above the surface, the mighty vessel Iluvátar orbited and controlled its metal feelers. Melkor sighed; his breath caught the forcefield serving as a window and dissipated in a series of tiny electrical cracks.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Melkor didn't respond. Soft footsteps echoed in the long, empty observation deck as the voice moved closer.

"Surely you agree?"

"It's beautiful now," he replied, holding his gaze on the tumultuous planetoid below. "Whether it will be when we've finished doing all this to it…" he trailed off.

The voice behind him laughed softly. "I was talking about what we're doing to it."

The silence stretched on as a new satellite zipped past the window, taking up a position directly below them and adding to the bombardment of the planet's surface.

"It's impressive," Melkor conceded. "But beautiful…well, I suppose that depends upon your point of view."

Manwë let out a scoff and stood by Melkor's side. "We're transforming a ball of molten rock into a living, breathing biosphere," he exclaimed. "We're birthing a planet in less time than it took to birth you or I. It's a triumph of science."

"Some might say it's science overstepping its bounds," the delicate-featured young man retorted. "Who knows what this planet might have evolved into if we'd left it alone? Something strong, something unique, something…" He sighed. "Beautiful."

"Always you must be my conscience, brother," Manwë said gently as glinting silver arms snaked out from the hull beneath them to adjust the new satellite's position. "You know I trust your opinion on these matters more than anyone else's", he reassured him, "but these are our orders, and as such it is out of our hands."

Melkor turned to face his half-brother, the dull blue light of the forcefield casting half his face in a sickly glow and the other half wreathed in the shadows of the unlit room. Despite sharing a father, their differences in countenance were striking; one small and dark-haired, with the gentle features of a youth and bright eyes of a child, and the other tall, broad and golden-headed, with an easy smile and dusky skin.

"I did bring my misgivings up with the Captain," he muttered, casting his eyes downward awkwardly.

"And he told you to mind your own business," Manwë finished for him. He sighed and shook his head. "Melkor, you're a good commander but Eru has experience. Plus, there's no-one on this ship who's even half as talented an engineer as you. You need to get over it."

Melkor swallowed hard. He wasn't used to being told 'no'; his competence and charm usually won people over instantly. But being passed over for command of the Iluvátar had been a gutting blow.

"It's a rogue planet," he protested. "It's too small, the gravity's too high, it's practically just a ball of magma right now; it's a waste of resources," he grumbled. "I told him outright, we could terraform four developed planets for the raw materials he wants us to pump into this one," he continued, becoming more and more animated, "but he said it wasn't my decision to make! I'm the Chief of Engineering on this project, who does he think he is to just ignore me?"

"He's the captain," Manwë said, placing a tender hand on Melkor's shoulder, "and he makes the rules. I have to jump just as high for him as you." A volcanic eruption below them ripped a seam of livid red open on the planet's crust, the ejecta slamming into the forcefield and crackling into nothingness in a bright white glow. Satellites caught in its path exploded in a maelstrom of arcing lightning. Manwë squinted into the light. "You should probably get back down to engineering," he said. "They're going to want help with that."

Melkor smiled thinly and turned to walk away. "Melkor!" His half-brother called after him with a grin. "Tell you what; next planet we reach, I'll ask if you can decide what we do with it!"

The engineer laughed mirthlessly and stepped into the shuttle, his face falling into a frown as soon as he was alone.

"Engineering," he growled.

The shuttle zipped off immediately at tremendous speed, only slowing when it reached the transport hub at the centre of the ship. It was here where Melkor was reminded of the sheer scale of the vessel. Six miles from tip to tail, half a mile high and a mile wide, it was more a floating city than a ship; a quarter of a million of the Ainur's finest minds and workers now called this their home until the day they died, a million light-years from their home galaxy. The top and bottom and opposing walls of the transport hub were almost out of sight, and in every direction queues of floating shuttles rose, fell and inched forward as they carried their occupants from one end of the ship to the other.

"Commander Melkor!" His communicator erupted from his breast pocket. "Commander, we need you in engineering."

"On my way," Melkor replied as his shuttle lurched forward and zoomed down a connecting tunnel, bringing him in a matter of seconds to the engineering deck.

"Commander Melkor, Sir!" The chubby little lieutenant blurted as he saw the Chief step out of the shuttle, banging his hip painfully on his console as he rushed to stand to attention. The rest of the department carried on unheeding of their commander's presence, rushing from station to station and shouting to be heard over the tumult of voices as they attempted to get the volcanic eruption on the surface under control.

"Still ejecting-"

"-not our fault, the bloody geologists should've-"

"-satellites are going to melt at this rate!"

"Stand easy, Aule," Melkor replied to his second-in-command. The lieutenant returned to his seat and wiped his sweaty brow with an enormously hairy forearm. Melkor grimaced as droplets splashed over the console. "I saw the eruption, how are you coping with it?"

"Not well, Sir!" Aule shouted as he calculated new satellite trajectories in his head and input them two at a time with either hand. The huge screen above him changed to match his courses and a new wave of hysteria broke out amongst the engineering crew. "It's a Class 4, it could destroy the crust solidification specifications. Currently trying to trap as much of the ejecta as possible, re-insert it into the mantle and then use a gravity well to stitch the seam back together."

"That won't work," Melkor replied, unbuttoning the cuffs on his heavy-duty engineering one-piece and rolling up the sleeves, "the eruption's too violent. You'll lose crust integrity and with it, the planet." He pulled a console over to him and set his palm on the screen, giving him access to the override. "I'm going to seal that seam. Forget the ejecta, I'm not ordering our satellites to chase dust." His fingers flew over the keys as he rearranged the satellites, his underlings screaming in panic as their screens changed without warning.

"But Sir," Aule protested, "if we don't seal it properly we'll lose weeks having to reorder the shape of the planet, compensating for the change in wind flow and distribution of plant life - months, even!"

"If we don't seal it right now, there won't BE a planet to re-order!" Melkor shouted above the rabble. "And lieutenant, I don't know about you, but I've just spent the last five thousand years asleep - I've got time!" He committed all available satellites to the cause with a swipe of his hand and within seconds, billions of gallons of liquid nitrogen were pouring into the molten red wound on the face of the planet, sending up immeasurable clouds of smoke as the magma cooled and hardened, sealing the crack shut. Melkor let out a long sigh and pulled his long, black hair, slick with the cloud of sweat and steam that constantly pervaded the engineering deck, back from his eyes. The shouting of the crewmen eventually gave way to applause and whoops of triumph. A smile tugged at Melkor's lips; the adulation warmed him from within. He could get used to it.

"Lieutenant Aule, you have the deck," he announced, pushing the console away and heading for his office. "No doubt the Captain wants to know how we've just ruined his precious planet," he added under his breath.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Manwë stepped out of the elevator and onto the bridge. It was a dizzyingly huge room; rows of consoles on four descending tiers stretched out for yards in either direction, all facing a gigantic four-piece screen, showing a combination of all the ships' functions and the view outside. Usually it was a loud, bustling place, but now the silence stunned him. Next to a live feed of the still-smoking gash in the planet's face, Manwë groaned silently to see his half-brother. Melkor, he thought, What have you done now?

"Commander Melkor," Captain Eru barked in the silence, "your entire department was working together to try and reverse the effects of the eruption - the entire department! The best the Ainur has to offer! And you overruled them and instead left us with a newly-formed mountain range-" he paused to check his screen, "-six hundred miles long and three miles high!" Melkor rolled his eyes. "Do you have ANY explanation, Sir?"

Melkor inhaled deeply, his eyes boring into the captain's across the video link. Manwë slowly took his place behind the captain's chair, hoping his half-brother would notice him. "It would have failed, Sir." The bridge erupted into protestation and argument. "The eruption was simply too big," Melkor continued, almost shouting to be heard over the noise. "To attempt to fix a split crust of that magnitude with a gravity well would have fatally compromised the magnetic field. We wouldn't have noticed it at first, but trust me, eventually that planet would have split apart."

"Nonsense!" An officer on the bridge shouted out, his comrades hushing to let him speak. "Just before we left the galaxy they fixed an impact crater twice that size with a gravity well!" Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room.

"And has anyone been in touch with them lately?" Melkor replied sarcastically, his youthful features innocent. The officer cleared his throat and sat back down. Dissent grew around the bridge until the Captain silenced them.

"Commander Melkor, I want to see you in my office at the eighth bell, tomorrow." He sent Melkor's unimpressed face away with the vigorous jab of a button. The bridge rapidly resumed its usual business of fuss and noise and the captain turned to face his First Mate. "And I want to see you in my office now," he rumbled, pushing himself up and stalking down the row of consoles to his office at the far left of the bridge. Manwë followed in silence until the hissing of automatic doors behind him shut out the din of the bridge behind them.

"I brought your brother on board because you vouched for him," the captain began, easing himself down into his plush, high-backed chair. "I gave him the post of Chief Engineer because…?"

Manwë cleared his throat and gripped his hands behind his back. "Because I vouched for him, Sir."

"No, because he's that bloody good," the captain replied, irked. "But you know as well as I do, Manwë, that this isn't the first time he's gone off on one of his…his…"

"Fancies, Sir?" Manwë ventured.

"Ego trips!" Eru replied vehemently. "This is the third time he's overridden protocol, and I will NOT have officers who ride roughshod over our procedures, you understand?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Sir," Manwë said innocently, "but hasn't he been proven right each time?"

Eru regarded Manwë with a hard stare before sighing. "And what if next time he's wrong?" He said simply. "Have a word with him, if you would. You're the only one who can seem to get through to him." Manwë shifted uncomfortably. His brother's perceptiveness had been evident even from the youngest age; forever asking "Why?" or "Why not?". What started as innocent childish curiosity, however, had quickly blossomed into stubbornness and even insubordination. More than once since childhood he'd had to intervene to keep Melkor from a black eye.

"I will, Sir," Manwë agreed reluctantly. "And I'll remind him that an invitation to your office is not a request." Eru let out a snort of laughter and gestured to the door. Manwë turned on his heels and exited, making his way up the still-heaving bridge and exiting into the corridor. As he made his way to quarters he couldn't help but gaze out of the long, borderless windows; it took years to get used to a barrierless walkway teetering out into space. The entirety of the planet's southern hemisphere loomed towards him; the livid red of the molten rock and the cool blue of the forcefield melded together in parts to create brilliant patches of coruscating purple, with the glittering silver beams of the satellites flickering like will-o'-the-wisp in the distance.

"Beautiful," he breathed. "Beautiful."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Lights."

Soft phosphorescent light bloomed into the room at Manwë's command, illuminating the spartan berth. A double-bed, wardrobe, workstation and chair were all that adorned it, each in neutral military tones. Another borderless window stretched from one end of the room to the other, showing the vast and unending vista of deep space. An aggrieved grunt issued from the bed.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Manwë apologised softly. He sidled down onto the sheets and wrapped his arm around the struggling figure beneath them. "Lights down," he announced, dimming the light. "Better?"

"Mmf", Varda assented wordlessly, wrapping her husband's arm tighter around her. "Ship okay? Planet still there?" She mumbled sleepily.

"Just about," Manwë replied, yawning. "Melkor's got it in the neck from Eru, though."

Varda's eyes crept open. The mention of Melkor's name brought a bad taste to her mouth every time. "What did he do now?" She asked, now uncomfortably awake.

"Sealed a fault line with a trillion gallons of liquid nitrogen," Manwë said, his eyelids already heavy.

"What?!" Varda blurted out, turning to face her near-comatose husband. "Is he insane? He could have rendered the crust inviable!"

"Could've but didn't," he murmured, "calm down."

Varda frowned and propped herself up on her arms, sweeping brown curls out of her face. "Calm down? This is the third time! You can't keep defending him just because he's your brother!"

"Half-brother," Manwë mumbled into a faceful of pillow.

"He keeps doing this, Manwë," Varda retorted angrily. "If he were anyone else, he'd have been court-martialled by now, and you know it."

Manwë groaned and turned onto his back. "What do you want me to do? March down to Eru's office and demand he put him in the brig?"

"That's not what I was talking about," his wife grumbled and turned away from him, bringing the covers up to her chin. "You could just…have a-"

"-a word with him?" Manwë chimed in, unsurprised. "Wouldn't you believe that's exactly what Eru told me today? I'm not my brother's keeper." Silence stretched out between them, broken only by a sigh. "I will, of course, 'have a word' with him, but if you've such a problem with his competence I suggest you take it up with him."

Varda's eyes narrowed, staring daggers out into the depths of space. Spending more than ten seconds in Melkor's company was a thought that made her skin crawl.

"He wouldn't listen to me," she replied, "he doesn't listen to anyone."

She got no response but her husband's snoring. Sighing and clutching the covers tighter to her body, she closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep.


	2. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 2

_"Help!"_

_She ran down the corridor, pitch-black and blaring with emergency sirens. Only the distant stars cast any light on her path, strewn with weeping and groaning men and women. Orome loomed out of a distant doorway, his mighty frame torn ragged._

_"Lost," he mumbled, "lost…"_

_She pushed past him and found only corpses - friends and loved ones, strangers and acquaintances, tossed together in death like bones after a feast. They lined every corridor, filled every room, and hung from every bulkhead. Red lights flashed and flickered, illuminating gluts of blood decorating the walls and ceiling like a slaughterhouse._

_"Ulmo!" she cried out as she spotted her friend's silhouette stumbling towards her. "No…" she gasped as he fell forward. His eyes were gone, just a pair of empty holes sunk into his dark, blood-mottled skin. He croaked a warning before tumbling down, dead._

_The dead seemed to moan at her, their twisted faces crying out for help they could not realise was now too late. She burst into a sprint, leaping over the rows of bodies under her with tears streaming from her eyes until she finally reached the bridge. She flinched to see the great screens gone, torn off by a huge rent in the hull and sucked out into space, cascading down in pieces to the planet's surface. It loomed closer and closer in her vision - a crash course._

_He sat in the Captain's chair. Bodies piled around him but two were given pride of place, metal spears driven through their bodies to hold them standing behind his throne. Varda screamed as she recognised her husband's face staring dumbly at her, his head twisted completely around._

_He rose, and with him all darkness followed. Turning and walking past his gory prizes, he stalked the aisle towards where Varda lay helpless and terrified. His features, so delicate and boyish, were now dark and terrible, like a demon in the oldest stories. His brow seemed to shine as though he were wearing a crown, with a brightness so intense she could swear she felt her flesh burning._

_He reached out to her._

"Hey! You with us?"

Varda's head slipped off her hand and sent her elbow skidding clumsily across her desk, scattering detritus onto the floor. "Sorry," she mumbled, straightening her hair and wiping drool from her chin. "Sorry," she repeated dumbly. A few heads turned briefly from the dull glow of monitors before returning to work. The Low Orbit Tech Division was hard at work trying to salvage the remnants of the satellites which had been caught in the volcanic eruption and desperately re-positioning their remaining units to keep the terraforming operation running smoothly.

Enwe laughed and collected some of the paraphernalia from the floor. "Late night?"

"Kind of," Varda replied hesitantly. "Didn't really get much sleep. Was worried about the eruption."

"Yeah, same here," Enwe replied, her dark eyes widening animatedly. "Did you hear how they fixed it?"

Varda swallowed sharply. "Yeah," she replied non-committally.

"Wasn't it amazing?" Enwe gushed. "I mean, I thought we were on the verge of losing the planet, but then Melkor comes up with that genius solution!"

"It was hardly genius," Varda scoffed, typing calculations into her workstation and sending a satellite zooming from one end of the planet to the other. "It was sheer luck he didn't break the planet in two."

"If he hadn't have done it, the planet WOULD have broken in two," her friend retorted. "I like a decisive man…a man of action," she confided with a sly smile. Varda coughed to hide an involuntary frown. "Do you…" Enwe started, trailing off as a florid blush reached her cheeks. "…never mind."

"What?" Varda asked, hands still typing but eyes askance to watch her friend's expressive face contort.

"Do you think you could introduce us?"

Varda let out a harsh bark of laughter, immediately covering her mouth with a hand as she saw Enwe's face fall into an almost parodical tragedy mask of horror. "I'm so sorry, Enwe," she apologised, taking her friend's hand in hers, "but…I really don't think he's that kind of man."

Enwe's face transformed yet again into a comical silent gasp. "You mean he's…one of Ulmo's friends?"

Varda frowned momentarily before letting another stifled laugh. The thought of Melkor having ANYTHING in common with the kind and friendly Ulmo, let alone sharing his orientation, was laughable.

"No," she explained delicately, "he's…he's not really a people person, dear." She smiled sadly and squeezed Enwe's hand as her friend tried to recover.

"Maybe he just hasn't met the right people," Enwe insisted, flicking her long black hair back over her shoulder. "I'm sure I could get him to come out of his shell."

Varda's face froze in a set smile. Enwe was going to run and run with this. But try as she might, Varda couldn't bring herself to tell her friend that Melkor wouldn't have any interest in her - not when she was clearly so invested in the idea. Let HIM do it, she thought to herself with a wry smile. I hate to hurt her, but one meeting with him in person and she'll never want to see him again.

"I'll get Manwë to talk to him," she acquiesced as Enwe almost burst with wordless delight. "He can usually convince him of just about anything. Maybe we could set up a double-date?"

"Oh yes, yes!" Enwe agreed effusively, gripping her friend's hands tightly. "There's a bar on K-deck I heard some of the Geophys guys talking about, it sounds absolutely gorgeous-" She was stopped mid flow by a buzz from her communicator, much to Varda's relief. "Oh, dammit, I'm needed in maintenance. We'll talk later, okay? Don't forget to tell Manwë!" She giggled before disappearing down a service ladder. Varda smiled mirthlessly before buying her head in her hands. _A double-date with Melkor? I'd sooner take my chances down there_ , she thought as the violent red planet filled the huge screen at the end of the room.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melkor steepled his fingers and sighed, staring intently at the floating hologram in the middle of his office. The projected planetoid turned lazily on its axis, dotted with pulsing red dots representing the flotilla of satellites at work on the surface. Rising and falling bars tracked the flow of minerals and materials from the Iluvátar to its robotic tendrils. Extra work was being undertaken to smooth down the fissure his emergency fix the day before had caused; yet another waste of time and resources, Melkor thought to himself.

His mind turned back to the conversation he had had with the Captain earlier that day. He had stood there, passive, while the Captain lectured him just as his teachers, as his parents once had; ignorant people spouting ignorant words. _Critical danger_ was a common theme in his tirade, along with _responsibility of command_. His stomach had turned as Eru had patronised him; he felt sure that in a reasonable universe, he would be being praised and rewarded for his quick thinking and decisive action. And wasn't the point of a Chief Engineer to run the Engineering section the way he saw fit? If that meant overruling his subordinates - so be it. There was a reason he was in charge and they weren't.

He let out a grunt of frustration and sent the hologram away with a swipe of his hand. Sitting down heavily in his chair, he picked up a tablet and began to type out his report. His eyes began to swim as the monotony of detailing the exact amounts of materials being used to "rectify" his "mistake" got to him. His finger slipped and he misplaced a decimal point.

He stared at the error. He knew he should delete it - and yet he did not. In real terms it represented a miniscule change, easily overlooked. It would have an effect on the composition of the planet, he reasoned, but nothing catastrophic; it was his engineering department, and his call. A slow smile crept over his face as he thought of this little triumph over the Captain's ego. _Arda will be a paradise_ , he recalled the old man declaiming over every screen on the ship immediately before their departure to the Spiral galaxy, _a haven of fine weather and clear skies. It will be an Ain reborn - unmarred from the strifes known by countless generations since the Uncovering._

And so, upon discovering GRG-534, wheels were set in motion to turn the molten, lifeless planetoid into a "perfect" planet; consistently good weather, perfect cloud cover and stable temperatures. Melkor had made his feelings on the matter clear; why try to make a perfect planet when Ain was never perfect to begin with? _If it was good enough for our ancestors_ , he'd argued, _it's good enough for our descendants_. The hardships of chill winters, harsh summers and uninhabitable stretches of desert and swamp had been the primordial cell from which the iron will and grit of the Ainur race had evolved. A civilisation raised in luxury would become decadent, helpless, and pointless. Where was the glory there?

Melkor rose from his chair, galvanised. The power was his; the right was his. He called the hologram of the planet back up with a click of his fingers and spun it around, zooming in with precise gestures. His most pressing problem with the current design was the mountains; the tectonic plates were to be locked in a precise flow to prevent continental drift, and thus make soaring mountain ranges an impossibility. The idea was to reduce wind flow and prevent unexpected weather fronts from forming. But a planet without mountains, Melkor thought, was not worthy of the title. As a boy he had stared entranced from his bedroom window for hours at the Red Mountains of the distant Yeren Pass, longing to one day climb them and see the curvature of Ain itself. He never did get to climb them; but that wouldn't stop the Ainur of Arda. Picking his satellites carefully, he altered the trajectory of each by a miniscule amount; just enough to set them on a totally different course and create entirely different tectonic plates, but so subtly and slowly that it wouldn't be discovered for millennia, or even eons.

He ran the projection. His eyes widened and his mouth curved into a grin as, with centuries flying by in seconds, he saw great mountain ranges snake up and down the spines of the twin continents, curving and curling off into smaller hilly ridges, creating bays and peaks, troughs and cliffs. Melkor let out a short laugh and clapped his hands to his face. This, _this_ was beautiful.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You're sure you told him we'd be inside?" Enwe asked for the third time. Manwë surreptitiously checked his watch.

"Oh, definitely," he replied, keeping an eye on the door. Varda looked down awkwardly and took another large gulp of wine. Enwe's nervousness had gone from sweet to irritating and, by now, was almost embarrassing.

Smart, attractive couples milled around the booth they were sitting in, chattering inaudibly and clinking glasses of fizzing cocktails. The mood lighting cast glittering shadows over the party, a singular island of gloom and awkwardness in a sea of frivolity. Melkor was now half an hour late. Manwë had stressed the importance of his turning up on time, but secretly knew it would have fallen on deaf ears. Melkor came and went as he pleased; he only agreed to the event at all by accepting it as a personal favour to his brother.

"He's probably got sidetracked down in Engineering," Varda ventured, "you know how busy it is down there at the moment."

"Yes," Enwe sighed, nervously sipping a glass of sparkling wine, "I suppose." She was beautifully-appointed in a shimmering black-and-purple scaled dress, her long black hair worked into a single thick plait that wrapped itself over her shoulder. Varda's heart had sunk at the sight of her looking so beautiful; so much effort, for a night doomed to be a disaster.

"How's maintenance going?" Manwë asked over the noise of a cheer from the bar.

"Oh," Enwe replied, her eyes fixed on the door, "not too bad. We were able to salvage most of the satellites; they look a lot worse than they are. But a funny thing happened today, actually, I got a requisition from Engineering - turns out that they want the lot. Every damaged satellite, they want to see if they can upgrade them or some-"

Enwe's breath caught in her throat and expressive eyes widened so far Varda feared they'd fall out. There was no mistaking what had caused that reaction. Before she could turn her head to the door Melkor had already joined them, seating himself gracefully next to Enwe in their circular booth.

"Good evening, everyone, sorry I'm late," he apologised with an unctuous smile. "It's pandemonium below decks. The crust is scheduled to harden completely in the next 48 hours, so I'm not sure I should be here at all," he said, flashing a roguish look at Enwe, who visibly rose three inches. "How are we?"

"Well, fine now you're here!" Manwë replied boisterously, resting a hand on his brother's. "We were going to send out a search party!" He signaled a waiter with a finger. "Another round? Melkor, what will you have?"

"Just water, please," he replied. "Enwe, Varda," he addressed the women as Manwë relayed the order to the waiter, "I must say…you look beautiful tonight." His ice-blue eyes glittered with the reflection of the stars in the mirrored columns around them. Enwe failed to supress a girlish giggle, while Varda eyed him suspiciously. Compared to rest of them, he'd come plainly-dressed; a matte black one-piece suit with a stole of metal grey, descending into a short cape. Given that she'd half-expected him to turn up in his work overalls, however, this was a pleasant surprise.

"Thank you, Melkor," she replied, reservedly. He seemed ingenuous, but she'd learned all too keenly that Melkor's greatest talent lay in making you believe whatever he wanted you to.

"I'd just like to say-" Enwe blurted out entirely too loudly, her excitement almost unchecked, "I'd…just like to say that, I think the way you fixed that seam was brilliant." Her upper body bent towards Melkor, who very subtly inched away. "I think you saved the entire planet. Really, I do. It was a stroke of genius."

Melkor's stiffness at Enwe's proximity to him relaxed a little and the corner of his mouth tugged itself upward. "Well," he replied, slowly turning to face her, "at least someone thinks so." His face split into a wide grin and Enwe was lost in giggles again.

The night rapidly took off, with round after round being delivered to their table, and Enwe's praise of Melkor visibly ingratiating herself to him. Manwë turned to his wife during another of Melkor and Enwe's protracted discussions on particle physics and whispered, _I think this might be the best idea you've ever had._ Varda scoffed and drained her glass. Manwë always saw the best in his brother.

"Oh, I love this song!" Enwe announced as the track changed, getting to her feet uneasily. "Melkor, will you dance with me?"

Melkor's face dropped into a rictus of horror, his eyes locking with his brother's. "No," Manwë boomed, "dance. Go. That's an order." Enwe locked her arm around Melkor's, dragged him to his feet and out onto the dancefloor. "Oh, this should be fun," he chuckled, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist and pulling her tight to him as Melkor glanced back pleadingly, like a lamb at the gates of the abattoir. "They seem to be getting on…very well indeed," he laughed, light-headed with wine.

"Yes, they do," Varda replied evasively. Her husband stifled a guffaw with his free hand as Melkor attempted to dance; a disjointed, stilted combination of thrusts and waves which more closely resembled a very leisurely seizure.

"God almighty, look at him go!" Manwë wheezed, his broad shoulders heaving with laughter and buffeting Varda uncomfortably. "I've seen better moves from a stroke victim!" Enwe, seemingly blind to Melkor's faults, lit up with smiles and brought her body in close to him, snaking a slender arm around his back and taking his hand with the other, guiding his steps.

"Why do you care so much about him?" Varda asked, unable to contain the question any longer.

"What?" Manwë replied, still laughing. "Because he's my brother," he said simply, wiping tears from his eyes.

"No, I mean," Varda interjected, biting her lip to consider her words, "Even knowing what he's like…what he's capable of, what he's…done," she said, her voice faltering, "you care for his happiness more than anyone else's. Why?" Her eyes glistened, a flash of steel. "Do you still feel guilty?"

Manwë sighed and ran his tongue over his teeth. "That's not true," he replied softly. "I care for your happiness more than anything else." Varda smiled slowly as her husband's eyes met her own. "And I care about him so much because…" he trailed off, exhaling loudly. "Because I have to believe that a man as great as him, can also be good." Varda's smile slowly dropped as she saw the sadness in her beloved's eyes. She felt petty and vindictive. She looked back to Enwe and Melkor, dancing under twirling light; who was she, after all, to say he couldn't have changed?

Enwe leaned in towards Melkor's cheek and dashed off, leaving him alone on the emptying dancefloor, light from the mirrored columns blinding him. He raised an awkward hand to his brother and sister-in-law, and turned to walk back.

Varda's heart almost stopped. For a split-second, there he stood, advancing on her, clad in black, his brow seeming to shine with glittering starlight. She saw bodies shimmer into view and disappear as soon as they were there. She gripped her husband's hand tightly as her throat seemed to close up.

"What's wrong, darling?" Manwë mumbled as Melkor took his place back at the table, his youthful features placid and inquisitive.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he agreed.

Varda swallowed hard. "I just…think I've had a little too much," she lied with a brittle smile. "Think it's time I got going."

"Yes," Manwë agreed, getting to his feet and stretching, "we do all have jobs to go to in the morning, after all." Varda clutched his hand tightly and held herself close to his side. Enwe returned to the table and pouted animatedly.

"Oh, you're going?" She whined.

"I should get going too," Melkor interrupted, standing and crossing to Enwe's side. "Those satellites won't upgrade themselves, after all." He took her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it in a single fluid motion. "I had a wonderful evening, Enwe."

Varda's hand shot out as Enwe's eyes rolled back into her head and she recovered well from what was almost a swoon. "So did I," she managed, breathily. The four of them walked together to the shuttles, Enwe departing first, followed by Melkor.

"Are you okay?" Manwë asked in his knowing tone. Varda breathed deeply, holding onto her husband's arm as though she were about to fall.

"No," she blurted, "No, I'm not."


	3. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 3

"Varda, what's the problem?"

Varda's gaze out of the window was broken by the sound of Nienna's soft, warm voice. She shook her head in apology and swallowed.

"I can tell you're troubled. It's my job," she continued. Varda smiled sadly.

"It's more a…question, than anything," she said, playing with a loose curl. The counselor inclined her head. "You-" she stopped, frowning. She struggled with how to phrase the question. "You're Touched, right?"

"Correct," Nienna replied patiently. Varda nodded and curled the lock of hair tight around her finger.

"When did you-how did you…know?" Varda asked.

Nienna tucked a foot under her knee and resettled herself in her seat. "The Gift reveals itself very early," she explained. "I can't remember a time in my life when I _didn't_ hear other people's thoughts. I was able to share dream-states before I reached puberty."

"So…it's not very likely it would present in an adult?" Varda ventured.

"No," the counselor replied with a smile. "It's something you're born with, it doesn't develop. What's this really about, Varda?" She asked kindly.

Varda sighed and put a hand to her forehead. "I've been having dreams…nightmares, really. Really…really bad nightmares." Nienna nodded sympathetically and tapped at her tablet. "But they feel so much…more than that. They feel like it's something that's going to happen."

"Traumatic dreams can leave a feeling of helplessness which some interpret as inevitability; even prophecy," Nienna interjected. "But believe me, true prophecy is a much, much more intense experience than even the most horrible nightmare."

"But-" Varda blurted before checking herself.

"No, go on," Nienna encouraged her, "what were you going to say?"

Varda sighed, feeling strangely guilty, as though she had been caught lying. "I had the same nightmare while wide awake," she said, "yesterday evening."

Nienna frowned imperceptibly and brought her other foot up beneath the opposite knee to sit cross-legged on the armchair. "When you say you had a nightmare while awake," she began, tapping again at her tablet, "what do you mean?"

"I mean, it was like the world kind of…shifted, like I was seeing a different version," she explained. "Something happened which reminded me of it," she spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to stick to the barest facts, "and it was like the nightmare…became real," she said with a shudder.

"Just like real-world traumatic experiences, traumatic dreams can have an after-effect," Nienna spoke at length after typing more. "Whether real or not, what the mind remember is the fear; things that remind you of that fear trigger it. I think if you got to the root of that fear, it would dispel the hold it has on you."

Varda retreated inside herself. She'd known it was coming; of course it was, but she still wasn't ready to face up to it.

"I don't have to be a mind-reader to know that's not a subject you're comfortable talking about," Nienna added softly. "It's okay, therapy is about gradual healing, not-"

"This is not therapy! I do not _need_ therapy! I'm fed up of you, and everyone-" Varda shouted, her eyes blazing into Nienna's soft, unchanging gaze. The placid serenity of the counsellor's big, dark eyes, framed against her dusky brown skin, sent Varda's anger collapsing in on itself. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Nienna rose from her chair and put and arm around Varda's shoulders, perching herself on the arm of her seat and stroking her hair as she cried.

"It's Melkor, isn't it?" she whispered, too low for the recording equipment to hear. With all psychometric appointments strictly scrutinised for signs of deteriorating mental faculties, openly breaching patient confidentiality would not have been a wise move. Varda nodded against Nienna's torso, sniffling loudly. "I really think you should tell me what happened between you," she added, even lower than before.

Varda sniffed long and noisily. "Okay," she sighed, wiping her eyes as Nienna retook her seat across from her.

"In your own time," the counselor announced deliberately loudly, resuming typing on her tablet.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melkor stood alone in his office, a circular room suspended above the sprawling factory floor which was Engineering. With his forehead against the two-way glass that lined the room, he watched intently as his department worked. The complex interplay of actions and consequences rose and fell like music in his mind; his underlings worked together like a production line, as synchronised as an engine. It was beautiful, in a way. Each of them applied themselves fully to their task; whether regulating heat levels, calculating strata compositions or collecting mantle flow feedback, his workers were single-minded in their devotion. Although unheeding of the ultimate result, they could be satisfied that their own contribution had been flawless. Only the hub of wheel witnesses the revolution.

Turning back to the floating hologram in the middle of the office, he studied the numbers glowing softly on the planet's face. Ore deposit densities. The numbers had a poetry to them, rising and falling in set patterns across the continents. Melkor scoffed. It was part of Eru's plan to ensure key materials were available everywhere and at the minimum of effort, to prevent the resource conflicts which had nearly torn Ain apart in ancient history. _Share-and-share-alike_ , Melkor thought with distaste; _a solution which only works for squabbling children_. A truly mature society would either accept chance and learn to be content, or demand a fair share on their own terms.

The more he considered the situation, the angrier he became; even from a geological standpoint, it made no sense. Such a regular pattern of ore dispersal would lead to unforeseeable problems in the far future as erosion and population expansion took place - had the captain truly abandoned foresight for dogma? Unbidden, Manwe's voice burst into his head: _He's the captain, and he makes the rules_. "Oh, shut up!" Melkor hissed to himself, pacing around the hologram. "His job begins and ends with picking a planet and waking us up, he doesn't have the slightest authority to influence my department in matters of science!"

A gentle cough from behind him woke him from his reverie, sending him spinning dizzily around. Enwe stood awkwardly in the open doorway, waving. "Is this a bad time?" she asked sweetly.

Melkor stood dumbly, pushing his straggly hair back as he searched for words. "No," he blurted, "not at all, come in." He dismissed the hologram with a wave of his hand and sat on his desk. "How can I help?"

"I'm just here to collect your mark for the satellites," she explained quickly, pulling a small tablet from her back pocket. "They're all down there right now, just waiting for your authorisation."

Melkor paused before getting to his feet and pressing his thumb to the tablet in silence. "Thank you," he said at length, turning to watch the battered and burned hulks of metal being floated onto the shop floor on gravity scows. "You didn't have to come all the way down here, you know," he said, studying Enwe's reflection in the glass. "It's a long way, and I'm sure you have more pressing duties right now with the crust almost hardened."

Enwe's mouth opened and closed mutely before she found her voice. "I just wanted to give it the personal touch," she said with a giggle. "I thought, you must have some important plan for them if you'd request so many of them." She clasped her hands behind her back, cheeks flushed. Melkor's eyes narrowed as he examined her posture, scrutinising her.

"It's a new kind of heat-shielding I've been developing," he announced, turning and advancing on her, "I thought it best to use decommissioned stock to test it. I wouldn't want to lose you any more," he said with the wide, charming grin he had noticed worked especially well on her.

Enwe laughed gently, showing large, white teeth. She swallowed hard and muttered, "I-I also wanted…well,really, I was hoping, that-that, that you'd-" she screwed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply as Melkor took a very tentative step backward, "I wondered whether you'd join me for dinner," she said, enunciating each word deliberately, like a stutterer attacking a tongue-twister. She opened her eyes and froze to see Melkor's shell-shocked reaction.

He blinked rapidly as Enwe's overly-rouged cheeks dropped into a look of sheer terror. "I'd love to," he squeaked before breaking into a throaty cough. "I, I'd really like that." Her face instantly rebounded into an open-mouthed rictus grin, bringing her fingertips up to her lips.

"Great!" she enthused. "There's a place on Obs Deck 5, I'll meet you there at seventh bell?"

Melkor ran a hand through his hair and gulped. "Sure, Aule can watch over the satellite upgrade," he thought aloud. Enwe let out an ear-splitting giggle.

"I can't wait! See you there!" She bade him farewell before disappearing down the ladder to the gangway below. Melkor let out the breath he'd been holding for what seemed like an age and trudged slowly to his chair, sitting down heavily. Last night had taken a lot of mental preparation, and that was with a day's notice and his brother at his side. But dinner with someone he hardly knew with just a few hours to spare? Terraforming a planet was easy street, compared.

Slowly the panic subsided as the cold part of his mind, always such a help in protecting him from the frailties of himself and others, rose to the fore and reminded him: _she has something you want._ This was not a "date", as no doubt his brother would term it; this was a chance for him to secure an investment. The end he foresaw permitted any means.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I've known Melkor and Manwe since we were children," Varda began, wiping her eye with the back of her hand. "Their father had estates in Ain Country, before the Blight. My family were tenants there. Dad was an engineer, he helped maintain the fission columns. Most of their land sat on a beryllium seam; it's how they made their money. Melkor and I - Manwe was older than us, he was always out with boys his own age, doing whatever it is they do - we would sit with my father while he worked. He was always asking question," she reminisced, her eyes staring out to a past long-gone and far away. "Dad would tell us, in the simplest terms, why he did what he did and how it all worked, but Melkor…" she paused and let out a soft, sad laugh. "He grew out of it so quickly. By the time we were ten he was asking questions my dad couldn't answer. I remember once I overheard him telling my mother, _If the gaffer ever hears his kid talk the way he does to me, he'll have my job the next day_."

Nienna smiled good-naturedly. "You remained friends into your teenage years, then?" she asked.

Varda cleared her throat. "Yes…we became quite close, Melkor and I. We were both interested in science, so most of our conversations were about it. I have to admit though," she sighed, "he lost me past the age of…sixteen, or so. He was talking in concepts I couldn't even imagine. I…I loved that about him. Even though I couldn't keep up past the first five seconds when he'd go off on one of his theories…it impressed me."

"Is that when your relationship started?" Nienna asked.

Varda swallowed as her stomach turned. "No," she replied hoarsely, "no, our relationship didn't begin until we were much older. At seventeen we both went off to Academy; I went to the Space Technology Institute, he went to the Curia…naturally, being the son of one of the richest men on Ain, and a genius to boot," she added somewhat bitterly. "We only saw each other a couple of times during those seven years. The Blight happened in our fifth year of study," she explained. Nienna nodded sombrely. "Melkor and Manwe's father…" she coughed, not needing to say any more. "They came back for the funeral, it was the only time I really spoke to them both before we graduated. I say spoke," she scoffed, "I don't think Melkor said a word to anyone beyond 'hello' and 'goodbye'. Even with me it felt like he was talking straight through me. I just-" she stopped again to cover her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I just wanted to help him. I wanted to hold him and let him know he wasn't alone, but…he just wouldn't be touched."

"We react to bereavement in many different ways," Nienna said, "with someone as single-minded and high-functioning as Melkor, it's not surprising that he would react badly to physical contact - he was probably trying to think his way around the situation, whether he was aware of it or not."

Varda rolled her eyes, "Yeah, well," she sighed. "I didn't see him again until we had graduated. The brothers came back to reclaim their father's estate, but…there was nothing left, really. The taxmen had taken ownership of most of the beryllium mining operation to cover the death dues and back-dated land taxes he owed; they didn't get much of an inheritance. It's why I never wonder why they're here," she mumbled awkwardly. It was the only truly taboo subject amongst the crew of the Iluvátar; what had led them to taking a one-way drip into deep space. Nienna, however, ignored whatever implications may have hung around the statement.

"So, this is the start of the relationship, I take it?" She inquired.

Varda nodded. "Not long after the boys came home, my father took ill. Rock-lung, they called it in the trade; inhaling beryllium fumes. There was nothing they could do. He was gone within months." She sniffed and shuddered violently, taking a while to compose herself. "Manwe told me at the funeral to come live in the house with them; _It's the least we can do_ , he said. So, I took one of the rooms…that's how me and Melkor got talking again. It was just like old times," Varda remembered, the faintest traces of a smile playing on her lips. "Only now, I could keep up with him. We talked for hours and hours about physics and engineering, and I think I learned more in those first few months than I did in seven years at Academy. It was only natural…that…" She trailed off again, clearing her throat. "He had never…had anyone. It was all alien to him. The things I had to teach him about basic interaction," she laughed, "it was as though he was still a child. He was still a child," she repeated, chewing her knuckles and lapsing into silence. It dragged on for several seconds, Nienna waiting patiently, before she resumed.

"It started with his tantrums," she continued, her voice beginning to break. "Whenever anything…went wrong, or upset him, he would fly into these rages. I've never seen anything like it. Imagine a five-year-old's worst temper fit, and scale it up to a 25-year-old man…a 25-year-old man who knows your worst fears, who knows exactly how to hurt you. He'd say-" she coughed and sniffed messily, "awful, awful things, all to hurt me. To take out his frustration on me. And I…I loved him, so much, that I just wanted to make him better - I just wanted to let him get it all out and wait till he'd become all nice and docile again, and then I could hold him, I could…" Varda collapsed into a protracted sob. Nienna rushed to her feet and cradled her, stroking her hair.

"It's alright. You don't have to say any more if you don't want to," she whispered into her friend's ear as she rocked back and forth in her arms. They clung together for what seemed like hours as Varda's sobs slowly faded into slow, breathy moans.

"And now my best friend has a thing for him," she sighed, her voice cracked with emotion. "We all went out last night and I thought he'd bore her or creep her out so much she'd lose interest, but he just smiled that…that fucking _smile_ of his, and she was all over him…and I'm just terrified that he's going to hurt her just the way he hurt me."

"Varda," Nienna addressed her, taking a knee and stroking her shoulders, "what was your nightmare about? Specifically?"

Varda sniffed again. "The ship was dead. Everyone was dead. Melkor did it," she said between sobs.

"I think it's been brought on by being in proximity to him again. I think some subconscious part of your brain knows that it's not like being back on Ain, where you could run away to the Northern Desert if you wanted to - you can't…escape from him, here. On a ship, you can't run away from your problems, and they can't run away from you. Unless you confront this situation, your mental state is going to deterioriate." Varda nodded sadly. "I think we should continue to see each other regularly, okay?" Nienna said softly, squeezing the top of Varda's arm. "And I think you should let your friend know what she is getting into. He may well have changed in all that time, but-"

"-But don't let her take the chance," Varda finished for her. Nienna nodded slowly.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Bauxite - 5.6 million units_

_Haematite - 4.3 million units_

_Ferberite - 1.1 million units_

_Cerussite - 0.34 million units_

The calculations were perfect. They would fill a thousand-mile stretch of the eastern continent with enough raw metal to feed a thousand furnaces for a thousand years, at the minimum of expense and next to no effort.

It wasn't good enough.

Melkor turned the holographic dial projecting from his tablet with a twirling finger, running his tongue along his teeth as the distribution pattern shifted north. One degree of latitude, two, three; the results were absorbing. He watched as icy tundra began to form on the slopes as their minerals were pushed further north, the lush coniferous forest never having a chance to root in the thin, poor soil such dead earth would engender. But what riches he was leaving for those brave enough to cross those wastes; a mountain range capped with snowy peaks of awesome majesty, running with mighty rivers of iron and lead.

Five degrees north. That was all it took. His hand hovered over the button to turn his concept into an order, his order into a reality. Furrowing his brow, he made it so. _Not bad for a day's work_ , he thought to himself.

And now, he had an appointment to keep.


	4. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 4

Aule examined his options. His situation wasn't good. Despite his best-laid plans, events had transpired which forced him into a very tight spot indeed. He could retreat - of course he could. Just say, "Not my problem, guv" - and leave one of his comrades to take the fall. Or he could even kick it upstairs - but the boss would NOT take that kindly. The man had total control over him, and he could put him in an even stickier mess than he was already in.

He gulped. He could feel their eyes around him, burning the question into him - _What are you going to do?_ They'd get impatient soon. Then the fun would _really_ begin.

There was nothing else for it - he had to press on ahead. Clearing his throat and wiping his dry mouth, he said, "Fire."

All eyes turned to the brooding, shadowy figure at the end of the table, awaiting his judgement. He drew it out, leaving them hanging.

A dark, gnarled hand flung forward, casting the dice out onto the table.

_Five…_

… _Two._

"Odd number, you miss!"

The table erupted into life as Aule covered his face in misery. "Why didn't you play your distraction macro?" Came an exasperated voice from opposite him. "How do you miss _seven times?!_ " Came another.

"The Demon Lord-" Ulmo declaimed over the group, his rich, theatrical voice commanding immediate attention, "withstands the full force of Aule Iron-Arm's attack with no more ill effect than a slight limp," he said with relish as the rest of the participants laughed. "He raises his mighty hammer and crushes him, before trampling the remains underfoot!" A low moan of pity washed around the table. "With the rest of your party dead, the last chance for good to reign in Erlden has perished - the Demon Lord is triumphant!"

"Again," deadpanned Tulkas, opening another bottle of beer with a vice-like fist.

"Darling, if you want to DM the next one, you're more than welcome," Ulmo retorted, "but I can't see many of staying awake through three hundred rounds of _Tabletop Darts-and-Farting."_

"I can't see many of us staying alive through that," Nessa quipped, letting out a throaty laugh as Tulkas spat a mouthful of beer down his bushy beard. Conversation flowed with the wine as Ulmo collected up the paraphernalia; Tulkas and Nessa sparring in the way they'd perfected over the last ten years with Ulmo interjecting with ever-more-questionable innuendos, Aule and his wife Yavanna quietly doting on one another over a shared glass of red. The five of them had been friends from practically the moment they'd joined the Corps; when the Iluvátar Expedition came around, the decision to apply was unanimous. Each of them offered silent thanks, in the deadest black of deep space where no-one could hear, that they left nothing behind on Ain to regret - their world was the one around them, made of their friendship.

"Iron-Arm," Ulmo called out over the table, "how's life in the underworld?"

"Oh, can't complain," he replied, "I've been trying to train up this lad below me - Mairon - he's bloody clever, but he doesn't half know it. More interested in what people think than results. So, expect him to be an officer within the month," he said cynically, to a round of laughter. "We're not really making as much progress as I'd like, to be honest - Melkor's got us retrofitting all the satellites, some kind of new heat-dampening filament he wants to install, so they don't blow up like they did in that eruption the other day. I mean, I know it's got to be done, but it just feels like we're swinging the lead, to be honest." The company nodded together.

"Does he _ever_ stop working?" Yavanna asked her husband. "How many times have we invited him to dinner, and he's always working on something, or waiting for a delivery, or trying to stop something from blowing up-"

"He's weird," Tulkas announced with trademark bluntness before belching. "Skinny pasty-faced little gimp."

"Ah, he's alright," Aule reproached them both. "Some people are just like that, they prefer work to play."

"Or maybe for them, work _is_ play!" Ulmo chimed in, pleased with himself. The table murmured loudly and stroked non-existent beards - or in Tulkas' case, an existent beard - in mock erudition.

"I'll tell you what, though, I'll tell you what," Nessa slurred, leaning into the table smugly, "I know for a FACT that for the last couple of days, he's been spending quite a lot of his free time with a certain female crew member who will remain nameless."

"How'd you know that?" Tulkas blustered.

Nessa shrugged. "One of the privileges of working in Surveillance!" She crowed.

"Hang on," Aule interrupted, "one of the lieutenants from Low Orbit Tech came over a couple of days ago with those satellites, she spent a good long while up in his office…"

"Low Orbit Tech?" Ulmo repeated. Aule nodded. "What did she look like?"

"Pretty," Aule replied immediately, ignoring his wife's pointedly raised eyebrow. "Lots of very long black hair. Smiled too much for a techie," he chuckled, before realisation dawned on him, just as it had on Ulmo, who had closed his eyes in horror. "Oh God, it was Enwe!"

Tulkas' booming laugh overpowered all conversation as the table all joined the fray at once. Enwe's one-time pursuit of Ulmo - and blindness to the futility of her task - had given the group no shortage of laughs, most of them at his expense. "What is it with that woman and men who would have no interest in her?" Nessa wondered out loud.

"The inside of her head," Ulmo said, shaking his head, "must be terrifying."

"It's the inside of Melkor's head I'm worried about," Tulkas growled.

* * *

Manwe and Melkor sat alone together in the officers' mess. The eastern edge of Arda - as it was now unconsciously being called by most of the crew - loomed out of the full-length window to their side, as though intruding on their conversation. Melkor sat poker-straight, barely touching his soup as he watched his brother shovel meat and vegetables into his mouth with barely a pause for breath.

"It's not going anywhere, you know," he muttered drily as he broke a crust of bread.

"You want to get some of this in you," Manwe replied through a mouthful of food, chewing noisily. "You've never been anything but skin and bones."

"Heavy food slows me down," Melkor sniffed as he sipped at his soup. "Makes you tired, slows the brain. I've got to be constantly firing all cylinders, you know, in this job. Always alert, always ready, just waiting for the next thing to go wrong. I suppose that's not a problem you have," he muttered _sotto voce_.

"Hey!" Manwe protested, "I've got just as much responsibility as you! More, actually, being First Mate!"

"Oh, yes," Melkor retorted, dipping his bread into his soup, "and what is it the First Mate spends most of his day doing? Standing outside the Captain's office, hoping to hear a cough?"

Manwe's eyes narrowed momentarily before he burst into a peal of laughter. Melkor smiled slowly, stirring his soup absent-mindedly. "So," Manwe said slowly as he cleared his plate, "how did it go with Enwe?"

"How did what go?" Melkor replied innocently, stuffing a bread roll into his mouth.

"You know what I mean," said Manwe conspiratorially, leaning forward. "Varda told me all about how she's been seeing you."

The brothers' eyes locked. Melkor swallowed slowly. "We've met for dinner a couple of nights this week," he mumbled, staring down into his bowl.

"Good!" Manwe boomed. "It'll be good for you, getting out of the underworld once in a while, meeting new people." Melkor smiled thinly, eating his soup in silence. "Have you two…?"

The silence stretched on for several seconds before Melkor met his brother's piercing gaze, eyebrows waggling. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "No, we haven't", he croaked.

"Taking it slow, eh?" Manwe said knowingly. "Good idea. She seems a good girl. Quite…intense, but she's sharp as a tack and sweet as a button."

"Look," Melkor started, dropping his spoon with a clang, "I'm not like you. Okay? I'm not…I'm no good at this whole thing. I'm not sure what I should be feeling, or how I should be feeling it. I don't even know what she's getting out of me turning up and eating food with her every other day, talking about work…" He clapped a hand to his face and sighed. "I just don't see how it's making her happy," he finished, returning to his food.

"She's taken a shine to you," Manwe explained with a shrug. "No-one knows why the heart wants what it wants. But the bottom line is, she wants to make you happy. You want my advice? Let her." Melkor sighed and said nothing. "When are you seeing her next?"

"Tomorrow night," he replied, sounding tired. "We're going to the theatre."

"Well," said Manwe, pushing his empty plate aside and stretching, "I recommend you make up your mind over what you want out of this relationship before then. No-one would blame you for deciding it's not what you want at this stage, but if you leave it too late…you'll only be hurting her. You've a good brain in here," he said, gripping his brother's head in a huge, strong hand, "apply it!"

Melkor twisted out of his brother's grasp, batting his hand away playfully. "I think this is one problem where even I'm stuck," he sighed as Arda filled the window entirely, bathing the two of them in its dull orange glow.

* * *

"So, how have you been since we last saw each other?"

Nienna was sitting cross-legged and barefoot on her armchair as usual. She eschewed the ubiquitous one-piece garment of the Iluvátar's crew in favour of a long, billowing skirt which brushed the tips of her toes, and a thin muslin blouse with sleeves that reached her knuckles and trailed down to her knees. With her dark and curly hair, creamy brown skin, and eyes of the deepest black, in another age, Varda thought, she would have been a sorceress or a druidess.

"Better," Varda lied. She attempted a smile, which faltered in the glare of Nienna's knowing gaze.

"Have you been having the same dream?" Nienna asked, already knowing the answer. Varda nodded.

"It's been getting worse," she said. "I remember more and more of it every time, and it's just…horrible."

"Have you had any contact with Melkor since?"

"No," Varda replied, "but my friend has been seeing him more."

"Did you tell her about your experience with him?"

Varda shook her head. "I just can't bring myself to. I don't want to have to…relive that."

Nienna tapped at her tablet. "Then let's talk about that. Let's have you face up to it so that you can talk to her about it. Do you agree?"

Varda nodded. "Okay," she whispered.

"How would you describe the nature of your relationship with Melkor?" Nienna began.

Varda sighed long and loud, leaving silence hanging between the two for a protracted period. "One-sided", she said at length. "Totally one-sided. It was as if I lived to make him happy, nothing else. And when I didn't make him happy, he…he would get angry."

"These would be the 'tantrums' we discussed in our last session?" Nienna probed.

"Yes," Varda replied softly. "At first it was just when he got rejected for teaching posts, or refused grants, or other things that endangered his career…but soon, it became everything. Not being able to balance an equation. Breaking his soldering iron. Any minor problem and he'd blow up at me; tell me it was my fault, expect me to fix it. I just…I just let him, I just rolled over and agreed because I wanted him to be happy."

Nienna nodded sympathetically and continued to type. "Was he ever violent with you? Physically?"

"Oh, no," Varda replied immediately, "never. I mean," she scoffed, "look at him, he'd do more damage to himself. He'd just shout…get inside my head. He's so good at that; he could convince you black was white. He made me feel…" Varda choked back a sob. "He made me feel like I was worthless. Nothing. I don't even remember at what point I stopped loving him and just started being scared of him," she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

"How long did this go on for?" Nienna asked once Varda had become still and calm once more.

"Two years," she replied, "practically our entire relationship."

"And do you think his relationship with your friend would follow the same pattern?"

Varda fell silent, thinking. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's been a long time, he went away, he travelled…I don't know if he met other women while he was gone, but he certainly never mentioned them to Manwe if he did. He's still just as awkward and antisocial as he ever was, but a part of me wants to think that he matured in those years away; that he learned how to be less angry. But sometimes I look at him," she continued, her lips curling in disgust, "and I catch him with that same look on his face; like he's studying you. Like a snake, watching you, waiting. Like you're an insect."

* * *

The Engineering crew were hard at work on the satellites, swapping out overloaded relays, replacing compromised hull plating, inserting new hardware. Melkor's overhaul of the satellites had been far-reaching and demanding, changing the entire outer skin from a gold-aluminium alloy to a carbon-tungsten blend, reordering the inner working to protect the sensitive electronics from radiation emanating from the forcefield, and an unassuming little box to be attached to the central CPU. Melkor had been keen to bore to tears anyone who showed even the slightest interest in it; it was a course-correcting servo, automatically updating the satellite with its neighbours' movements and adjusting its actions appropriately. It would free up dozens of man-hours per day, he enthused, spent pointlessly re-ordering satellites manually. Most people who didn't have a deep understanding of and interest in low-orbit technology and terraforming - which was nearly everyone - smiled politely and waited for him to breathe to excuse themselves.

Which is how he could sneak the override into the satellites under everyone's noses.

Locking the door to his office from the desk, Melkor pulled his console screen towards him and activated the override command screen. _SHOW ACTIVE UNITS_ , he typed into the command line. Immediately a 3-dimensional plan of the engineering section appeared on his screen, with a dozen pulsing red dots in a line in the middle of the factory floor. Melkor grinned slowly. _SHOW CORE FUNCTIONS_ , he continued. A list of raw materials, basic specifications and simple commands opened in a floating window. He let out a slow, shaky breath. It was working perfectly.

_UPLOAD CORE FUNCTION FILE._

_Z:Z:Z:ADF-C/D:F-CHAOS-FF_

_APPLY ALL_

_END_

Melkor dashed his hands away from the keyboard. If he'd made the slightest error, the satellites would be useless. He'd be discovered, tossed into the brig, and left to rot in a re-education booth for the next ten thousand years. He swallowed hard, his heart hammering.

_SHOW CORE FUNCTIONS_

The same list as before showed up, but instantly he new it was different; the core values had changed, their parameters changed ever so slightly. He had altered the act of creation itself.

Slowly, he closed the override and pushed the screen away from him, taking to his feet and walking to the centre of the room where the holographic Arda spun slowly on her axis. From his office, he could impose his will on her. He could shape her the way he wanted - the way she _needed_ to be shaped. A beautiful, terrifying landscape, of scorching sun, freezing wind, and mighty peaks, just like the Ain of old. From its iron hills would a new race be born, with all the technology of his great people and the grit and gall of his hard-living ancestors. This would be his legacy - they would be his Great Work.

An involuntary laugh escaped his mouth, followed by another, and another, until he was in hysterics. He didn't know where it had come from, and he didn't know if he could stop. He bent over double, his mouth split open wide. Tears fell from his eyes. His legs buckled and he fell to the floor, still screaming with laughter, until exhaustion crept over him and the last laugh died on his lips with the onset of sleep.


	5. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 5

_“-okay? Commander, wake up-”_

Melkor groaned and forced his eyelids open with great effort. His vision was blurred and painful, unable to make out anything but the most indistinct blobs. Adrenaline surged through his body and he threw himself backwards as he became aware of a hand pressing on his chest and a stout, shadowy figure looming over him. He slammed painfully into his desk, catching his head.

“Commander!” Aulë cried out as Melkor flopped forward, cradling the back of his head in pain. The lieutenant’s strong arms righted him into a sitting position. “Let me see that,” he said with authority. After making sure his commander wasn’t bleeding, he let out a long, pained sigh. “Gods be praised, Commander, I thought you’d worked yourself to death,” he said, catching his breath. “What happened?”

Melkor swallowed dust, his throat rebelling. “Don’t remember,” he half-lied. “Think I must have passed out-” he broke into a violent coughing fit, his mouth drier than a desert plain. Aulë unstoppered his canteen and pressed it into Melkor’s hands, who greedily glugged down its contents. “Thank you,” he croaked, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

“How long have you been here?” Aulë asked, his brow etched with concern. Melkor shrugged.

“Eighth bell…two shifts ago,” he recalled at length.

“Two days?!” Aulë repeated, incredulous. No wonder he’d collapsed. “Sir, I think we should take you to the infirmary.”

“No, no, absolutely not,” Melkor protested, getting to his feet shakily. Aulë instinctively wrapped an arm around his to steady him. “I just need…some rest. A little sleep and I’ll be fine.”

“With all due respect, Sir,” Aulë replied, “you’re not fine. You’re working yourself into the ground, Boss,” he said, concerned. Melkor’s eyes met his adjutant’s for the first time since he’d arrived. “Take a few days. I’ll get Lórien to order you to rest if you don’t,” he warned, his kindly eyes hard with concern. Melkor sighed, his head nodding down slowly. “The satellites are done,” Aulë reassured him, gripping his shoulder, “and the crust is practically hardened - Biotech will be making a start on their end today, we’re not starting atmospheric development for a week.”

Melkor’s stomach fell through his body and his knees buckled, saved only from a trip to the floor by the strong arms of his lieutenant. _Biotech._ In his single-minded quest to control the satellites, he’d completely forgotten that Biotech were due to use half of them to begin laying topsoil and amino acids. If anyone would discover his treachery, it would be their gifted and intuitive lead scientist - Aulë’s wife, Yavanna. He had to think fast.

“Yes,” he admitted, “yes, you’re right. A couple of days will do me right. But-” he pre-emptively interrupted Aulë, “-I will be at my workstation in my quarters from ninth to fifth bell, as usual. I just want to oversee the transition…make sure it all goes smoothly,” he assured him. Aulë nodded understandingly.

“Of course, Sir,” he acquiesced, releasing his grip to allow Melkor to regain his posture. “Myself and Mairon can keep control of things from this end.” Melkor looked at him questioningly. “Tall lad. Blonde, good-looking.” Melkor nodded in recognition.

“I’ve no doubt you’ll be more than up to the task, Lieutenant,” he assured him, already on his way out of the door, panic beginning to creep over him. He slid down the ladder from the gangway to the factory floor, and broke into a dead sprint. The terror of being found out surrounded his heart like an icy hand - he ran, harder and faster, throwing himself around corners and narrowly missing machinery and open flames before skidding to a halt outside the shuttle bay doors. “Come on, come on!” he urged through grit teeth as he jabbed the call button repeatedly, willing the shuttle to speed up on its way to him. He ignored the looks of interest from passing crew members, throwing himself inside the moment the bay doors opened. “Row 54, C-block! Engage Vala priority MELKOR, zero-zero-six-three!” he announced as soon as he was in, strapping himself down hurriedly.

The shuttle departed as such a speed Melkor was pinned to his seat, his face contorting under the sudden acceleration. The Officer’s Override command was to be used only in the direst emergencies, when an officer’s presence was required as fast as possible. Under its order, the shuttle zoomed through the transport hub at twice the normal speed, hitting connections at terrifying velocities and buffeting Melkor like a leaf in a gale. Within thirty seconds the shuttle had navigated the three miles from engineering to the officers’ quarters, and Melkor stumbled jelly-legged from the capsule. Momentarily forgetting where he lived, he sauntered this way and that outside the shuttle bay before making an ungainly effort in the correct direction. His legs were beginning to tire from his run, and his entire body was suffering from taking a trip at half the speed of sound. Before exhaustion defeated him, however, he found his door and locked himself in his quarters.

Dragging himself to his workstation, he hurriedly loaded up his override program and and checked the status of the satellites. He breathed a sigh of relief to see that all satellites were currently aboard, upgraded and awaiting deployment. “Show me the video feed from Engineering,” he announced, his workstation complying almost immediately. Multiple windows were projected around the room, allowing him to take in all angles at once. His eye was caught by the distinctive blue epaulets of the Biotech division; they had already arrived! Aulë was chatting amicably with a woman in Biotech uniform. Melkor recognised her as Vána, second-in-command at Biotech - and Aulë’s sister-in-law. Melkor triumphed silently - no doubt the two would take their time with the handover, catching up on family business.

Cracking his clammy fingers, he began to type furiously, initiating a wide-spread reboot of the original core values of the satellites. He watched on tenterhooks as, one by one, the satellites returned to their default settings, the red blips on the screen turning green. Melkor finally breathed out as the last light changed, indicating his reset had worked. The breath, however, caught in his throat as he noticed Vána attaching small, innocuous-looking boxes to the underside of each of the satellites. An upgrade of their own? Why hadn’t he been informed of this?

“Camera Five,” he announced, rising on shaky legs to surround himself with the floating feeds from the surveillance cameras, “zoom in and target audio.” The picture distorted as it expanded in-frame, resolving into a finely-grained image with metallic conversation grating over it.

“ _-take too long to cart them down to Biotech the usual way. We’ve been working with Physic on them; the integrations it has to run are so complex, you need actual neural cells to take the strain. You engineers haven’t beaten good, old-fashioned biology just yet,_ ” she ribbed him.

“ _Instantaneous, though?_ ” Aulë replied, flabbergasted. “ _It’s not possible. Such complex matter can’t be reintegrated with any degree of similarity to the original.”_

Vána laughed as she pushed herself up from the floor, having attached the last box to the underside of a satellite. “ _The computer’s been running the calculations for five thousand years,_ ” she said. “ _You can solve any problem if you have enough time to think about it._ ”

“ _The ramifications,_ ” Aulë mumbled. “ _Unthinkable._ ”

“ _That’s why this is going to be our little secret, alright?_ ” Vána replied, leaning close to Aulë’s ear. “ _The only people who even know they exist are the Captain, the Physic brass, and Yavanna and I. I had to promise the boys I’d make sure I was alone when I did this, but,_ ” she smiled, “ _family’s family, right?_ ”

Melkor ran a hand over his dry lips. Transportation? Such a thing was beyond anyone’s comprehension - even his. For decades it had been ruled physically impossible for anything bar the simplest molecules. “Give me the feed from the Biotech holding bay,” he demanded.

 _OFFICER AUTHORISATION REQUIRED,_ the computer barked back at him. Blurting out his clearance, Melkor watched intently as Vána ushered Aulë back before punching some numbers into a touchpad. With a blinding flash, a dozen satellites disappeared as swiftly as turning out a light. Almost simultaneously, another flash filled the screen of the Biotech bay’s security camera, dissipating as rapidly as it had appeared and leaving in its wake twelve pristine satellites, exactly as they’d looked a moment before.

The breath in Melkor’s throat finally released itself. Such a breakthrough was astonishing, its worth to its possessor immeasurable.

In that moment, he knew he had to have it.

* * *

 

On board the Iluvátar, life went on much as it had on Ain. People had grown to accept their new surroundings, to treat the invisible barriers protecting them from the vacuum of space as blithely as they would the edge of the highway; inured to the danger of what lay on the other side, they focused on their own paths. Millions of light-years from home, the distance seemed to have created a kind of amnesia among the crew. People laughed and loved, walked the corridors as if they were their childhood streets, visited the shiny, pop-up food outlets as though they had been going there for years.

The same sense of community pervaded the cafe Varda sat in, waiting for Enwe to show. She watched as Maiar - non-commissioned crewmen - dragged chairs across the small space to sit crushed together at tiny tables, as cadets shared soft drinks and talked about imagined conquests in what they thought was a knowing tone. _We adapt so easily_ , Varda thought. She realised with a start she hadn’t thought about home since they set out from port, six months ago by their reckoning - five-and-a-half millennia, in reality. Even in the absence of a family to have left behind, the image of her father’s grave, long-overgrown and vanished from all memory, rose unbidden to the forefront of her mind. She screwed her eyes shut tightly, scaring the image away with thoughts of the conversation she was about to have.

“Boo!” Enwe whispered into Varda’s ear, sending her spasming back to reality and almost throwing her coffee over the floor. Enwe giggled as Varda panted heavily, her heart racing like a motor.

“Gods be praised, Enwe,” Varda spat through grit teeth, “don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” her friend lied, with a smile from ear to ear. “I couldn’t help myself.” Enwe’s smile faded as she noticed the dark look on Varda’s face, underscored by the early traces of bags beneath her eyes. “Are you alright? Have you been ill?”

“Yes,” Varda lied back. _Well - it’s not entirely untrue,_ she thought to herself. She’d stayed up sick with worry the night before, playing the conversation through in her mind over and over. Forcing herself to say the words again and again, so she wouldn’t trip over her own tongue or be frozen by a traumatic memory. It was also easier for her to pretend her absence for the last few days had been down to sickness, and not from having assiduously avoided Enwe while she worked up the courage to bring her new relationship crashing down. “I think I’ve been working too hard.”

“You have,” Enwe cooed, clutching Varda’s hands from across the table. “I was wondering where you’d got to, the department’s lost without you! And you’ve missed a LOT of news about me and Melkor-” she began, preparing to launch into an update of her life story.

“Actually, Enwe,” Varda cut in, her voice brittle as she felt the fear begin to rise in her, “Melkor is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Enwe laughed uncertainly. “Then, let me finish, bossy!” She replied flippantly.

“No,” Varda swallowed, “I mean, Iwant to talk _to_ you…about him.”

Enwe’s face, usually so expressive, fell blank and still. “What are you talking about?”

Varda took a deep breath and let it go slowly, staring intently at her coffee. “Did you-are you aware-” she began. She cursed inwardly and swallowed hard again. “Melkor and I were in a relationship. A LONG time ago,” she added as Enwe’s eyes took on the appearance of saucers. “I imagine he wouldn’t have mentioned this,” she half-asked.

“No!” Enwe blurted out, loud enough to turn heads around the cafe. “No,” she repeated, quieter, her full cheeks reddening as she felt eyes settle on the pair of them. “When? How long for?” she demanded.

“Like I said, a _long_ time ago,” Varda repeated, “and…two, nearly three years.”

Enwe, having sat bolt upright, seemed to deflate in surprise as she slouched back into her chair. “But…how,” she began, her long-lashed eyelids fluttering in confusion, “How did you end up with Manwë if you went out with his brother?” She asked, hissing the last word as though wary of eavesdroppers.

She had told herself before setting out that it wouldn’t be like a session with Nienna. She’d be controlled, precise and measured - not an unravelling bundle of trauma and regrets, as she so often ended up being with the counsellor. But as Varda got into her subject, as the memories resurfaced and the feelings of fear and inadequacy took hold, she found herself recounting, blow by blow, Melkor’s descent into abuse and neediness, her own crippling self-doubt, and each and every curse and slander he had thrown at her at the height of his pique. It was as if the mere act of speaking of their history was forcing her to re-live it; like a magic spell transporting her through time and space to her darkest of days.

“And the worst of it all is,” Varda finally concluded, her lip trembling uncontrollably, “the worst is he hasn’t changed. Not a bit. I look into his eyes and I see…I see nothing. A hole. As if, behind all the brains and the shy-little-boy act there’s something deep and dark and hungry - a black hole, sucking in everything you give it, never to be seen again. I don’t want him to hurt you too,” she croaked before collapsing into a teary coughing fit.

She sniffled noisily for some time as Enwe sat, as still as a cat waiting to pounce, in silence. “I’m sorry,” she said at length, “that your relationship with him was so bad.” Silence fell once more and dragged out between them for uncomfortable seconds.

“And?” Varda blurted, laughing with exhaustion and exasperation. “Don’t you have anything else to say? I haven’t even told Manwë half of this shit, Enwe, I was hoping for a little more reaction!”

“I’m happy,” Enwe replied firmly. “I know it might not be what you want to hear, but Melkor makes me happy. That’s all that matters, and anything beyond that is my business.” Varda’s mouth dropped open slowly. She’d never seen her friend so cold; the exaggerated facial expressions, the histrionic tone of voice were all gone, stripped away to reveal a hard and serious woman beneath. Her huge eyes blazed like binary stars in a stony face, flushed red with indignation.

“Have…have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Varda muttered, her stomach falling away from her as the empty feeling of loss and failure began to fill her throat. “The man’s a psychopa-”

“What would you know? You haven’t spoken to him in six years, not since you started fucking his brother!” Enwe spat, launching herself forward to loom over the table. Varda flinched and recoiled as Enwe thrust her face to within inches of her own, spreading her arms across the table like a spider. “What, are you not happy with making him feel even _more_ inferior to Manwë? You’ve got to try and wreck all his subsequent relationships too? Well, the man I know isn’t the boy you went out with. I’m _happy_ ,” she reiterated, “for the first time since…” she trailed off. _Since Ain_ , the unspoken words hung in the air. “And I’m sorry you’re so hung up on a bad relationship that you want to ruin mine.”

“Hung up?” Varda repeated, furious. “ _Hung up?_ He abused me!” Heads began to turn in earnest, earwigging onto the loudening conversation. “It’s not like we broke up for some…some _normal_ reason,” she blurted, “he’s…dangerous!”

“Maybe he was,” Enwe replied, straightening up but still clutching the sides of the table as though preparing to vault it, “but he’s not now. I know him better now than you do, and these things you’re saying…they’re not the Melkor I know. I’m sorry they happened to you, I really am, but…don’t try and sabotage my relationship by sweeping in with your sob story.” Varda gasped like she’d been punched. “It’s not the man I know, and I can live with that. Let us cast-offs have each other, at least,” she said venomously, pushing herself up from her seat and striding out of the cafe without a backward glance.

The patrons’ eyes sheepishly turned back to their own tables pair by pair as the entertainment ended. Uncomfortable chatter resumed, punctuated by forced laughter as Varda sat in shock, not entirely processing the conversation which had just happened. Despite all her warnings, Enwe was still hell-bent on pursuing a relationship with Melkor with a terrifying inevitability. Did she perhaps think she could control Melkor? The very idea would have made Varda laugh, had it not been so horrific a concept. Melkor wasn’t controlled - he WAS control.

She sat on the hard metal seat until her coffee had gone stone cold and the patrons retired to their quarters or clocked in for another shift, all the while as silent as the grave. As she stared out at the endless deep of space, the part of her mind that made her dream about Melkor told her that if Enwe did end up with him, there would come a day when Varda would no longer recognise her friend.


	6. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 6

Weeks passed. Like the planet beneath them, Enwe had cooled and hardened, no longer admitting those excesses of emotion and exuberance to which Varda had grown accustomed. Their working relationship had begun to fracture; their long conversations were a thing of the past, replaced with terse discussions on strictly work-related subjects. Varda had assumed that they would patch up their differences after the argument in the cafe in due time, once Enwe had poured her heart and soul out to Melkor while he stood shell-shocked, unsure what to do with a hysterical woman. But instead a chill seemed to follow her friend around, a coldness that permeated her every interaction. It was almost, Varda thought to herself in sleepless moments, like she was becoming more and more like Melkor.

"She's applied for a transfer," she mumbled. "To Engineering."

"Why do you think she's done that?" Nienna asked, sitting cross-legged on her chair as she always did.

"I don't know," Varda replied, tired. "Maybe she wants to see less of me, maybe she wants to see more of Melkor? I think it's both, to be honest."

Nienna nodded and took notes. "Have you tried engaging her in conversation since your argument?"

Varda shook her head. "No point. The moment I approach her it's like something goes down behind her eyes, like a blind. She's not as happy-go-lucky as she once was at the best of times, but when we're together…" She shuddered. "It's like she hates me."

"You told her a truth she was unwilling to believe," Nienna said. "From what you've told me of her reaction, it seems like she's a fairly damaged individual who's putting an awful lot of stock in this relationship succeeding; when you came along and - in her eyes - threatened to sabotage that relationship, she changed tack to protect herself. Silly, cold, angry - whatever it appears on the outside, I believe that inside she's…just sad," she finished, a hint of pity in her voice.

"Well, it doesn't matter HOW sad she is," Varda retorted, "it doesn't do me any good. I've lost just about my only real friend on the ship…apart from Manwë, I suppose."

"Let's talk about Manwë," Nienna interjected, sensing a new angle. "How is your relationship at the moment?"

Varda shrugged. The argument with Enwe had been easy compared to going home to Manwë that evening and telling him what had happened; he had remained resolutely diplomatic throughout, claiming he could 'see how Enwe would have reacted badly', that she should 'let her make her own decisions', and that 'it's been six years; you barely know him anymore'. His lack of support had felt like a punch. "It's fine," she replied non-committally. "We're both working so hard we don't really get any alone time, but we knew it'd be like that. We try to make the most of whatever time we do get."

Nienna took notes as the background hum of the ship throbbed in the background. "How's the sex?"

Varda did a double-take, as Nienna smiled good-naturedly. "A healthy sex life is essential to a good relationship. We're all adults here, you know. Though, of course, you don't have to talk about anything you don't want-"

"It's fine," Varda forestalled her. "No complaints." Nienna took more notes as Varda cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Do you think about Melkor at all?" Varda's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. " _Not_ during sex," Nienna quickly clarified.

Varda sighed loudly. "Sometimes. Most of the time, it's because I can't help it; he worries me. I'm scared he's going to turn Enwe into something…" she stopped, biting her lip. _He already has._

"Are you still having the nightmares?"

Varda's silence told Nienna all she needed to know. Still, she needed to hear the words - and she knew Varda needed to say them.

"Varda?"

"Yes," she replied quietly. "I'm still having nightmares."

"Are they the same as they were?"

Varda coughed. "For the most part," she said. "But sometimes Enwe is in them."

Nienna raised an eyebrow despite herself. "How does she feature?" She asked, leaning forward.

"She's with him," she explained. "At the end, when I get to the bridge and he's…there, she's by his side. She looks different; bigger, more…dangerous."

"I think," Nienna opined after some moments of silence in which she tapped frantically at her touchpad, "that you're no longer worried that Melkor is going to hurt Enwe, turn her into a doormat, in your words. I think - in my professional opinion - that you're worried that he's going to turn her into someone nastier and meaner than herself, someone-"

"Someone like him," Varda finished for her. "Yes. That's exactly what I think."

Nienna stretched and re-settled herself on her seat, before beginning gingerly, "How important is Enwe's friendship to you?"

"Very," Varda replied, on the verge of taking offense.

"I only ask," Nienna continued, "because I think, under the circumstances, it's best if you let her go to Engineering. It will stop your awkward interactions," she carried on quickly as Varda straightened suddenly, "and she will be able to spend more time in the company of Melkor, to see what he's really like; either they'll break up, or they won't. Either way, in due time, you'll get your friend back. Time and distance are great healers, believe me."

Varda frowned. Would it not be a betrayal of her promise to protect her friend, to surrender her to the very man she wanted to protect her from? But the fact was, relations between them were currently so poor that having them in the same room together lowered the temperature by ten degrees. The thought of signing Enwe's transfer request and sending her off without a backward glance had been tempting her for days; only now, Varda was forced to admit with some guilt, upon hearing the advice of her trusted counsellor, did she feel she had the nerve to do it.

"Alright," she sighed. "I'll do it."

Nienna's soft words of encouragement were lost in Varda's internal monologue, the last remnants of the voice in her heart telling her she was taking the coward's way out. _Send her away_ , it told her, _and she won't be the same._

The way Enwe was behaving right now, Varda thought, any change would be a bonus.

* * *

"Things are coming along well, wouldn't you say?" Captain Eru asked his first mate, passing him a glass of whiskey.

"Ahead of schedule," Manwë concurred. "Impressive, given the setbacks we've had." Melkor's actions in sealing the split in the crust, while having incurred the Captain's wrath at first, were now being spoken of highly by the other officers, and his progress in balancing the repair work and keeping the mission on-schedule had marked him out as an engineer - and an officer - of rare competence.

"Quite," Eru replied, taking a sip of his own drink and sighing, satisfied. "We can start to think about which poor bastards have to go down there, now."

Manwë nodded. It wouldn't be an easy task, and it was considered something of a horrible honour to be selected. Some officers even called the Colonial team the "forlorn hope", after the much-lauded but ultimately fatal first wave of attackers in the battles of antiquity. 14 senior officers, each selecting five junior officers as adjutants, to whom twenty crewmen apiece would be assigned: 1,400 people being asked to make the second-most-difficult decision of their lives.

He sipped the drink slowly, letting its fire coat his palate. The alcohol on board was invariably watered-down grog compared to the real thing; after all, when a single hungover technician could annihilate a continent, it didn't pay to give your crew the good stuff. But this, from the Captain's private supply, was vintage; laid down in 546.409AIN, half a century before they set out. Eru had a crate of it hidden in the ceiling of his office. "I thought the Colonial teams were assigned before we set out?"

Eru shrugged. "They're only recommendations," he replied. "As Captain, I have the final say. They're good recommendations, though," he continued, reaching for a tablet on the small table between them. "A lot of things have to be considered when you're choosing officers to populate a new planet; you don't just want the best person for the job, you want someone you can rely on. You know what I mean?" Manwë nodded. _Someone who'll take orders and won't go insane from loneliness._ "As I say, I agree with most of the names on this list. See what you think," he passed the tablet to Manwë.

Manwë scanned the list of names. His mouth curled into a small smile as he noticed, again and again, people he knew and respected counted amongst the crew's best and brightest. Ulmo, Yavanna, Vana, Lórien, Nienna; any society founded by such wise, kind people would surely be worthy of the name of Ain. "All fine officers," he concluded, handing the tablet back with another sip of the precious whiskey. "Which of them are you considering for command?"

Eru set his glass down and fixed his gaze on Manwë. "None of them," he said, letting his words hang in the air. "You weren't included in this list because you were considered too important to the mission to be spared, but…" He craned his neck to look out of the window. Arda glowered beneath them, an angry grey rock besieged by winds and rain as the biosphere began to take hold; what Varda always used to call the "birth pangs" of a planet. "As far as I am concerned, _that_ is the mission. That and every other planet we terraform until there are none of us left."

Manwë knew what was coming, but the pain in the Captain's eyes tempered his pride. He knew so little about him; he was ineffable, in a way, a constant commanding figure who remained apart from his men, despite earning their respect so easily. But the deep, dark hole he sensed beneath the Captain's steely gaze betrayed a man who had - like nearly all of the crew of his ship - lost everything to the Blight.

The desperate survivors of a dying race, running to the hills to find sanctuary.

"I agree, Sir," he murmured.

"I hoped you would," the Captain said kindly. "You're the most competent officer I've ever served with, Manwë; you're my first and only choice to lead the first Colony."

Manwë swallowed. "I am grateful, Sir," he said, "but…I hadn't expected this. My wife…"

"I understand," Eru replied. "She wasn't on the list for the same reason as you. Talk it over with her; if you accept, then we can talk about who you'll be taking with you." Manwë nodded nervously, his mind already racing. Would Varda even agree? If she wouldn't join him, there was no question of him going. And yet, the thought of leaving the first colony in the hands of someone less experienced in command sent a chill down his spine; his sense of honour, something his wife had rolled her eyes over too many times to count, told him he had a moral obligation to ensure the colony had the best possible leadership. _To fulfill my duty to the best of my ability_ \- those were the words he had sworn upon joining the Service. Would his refusal of this role be tantamount to dereliction of duty?

The faces of his friends stared back at him from the tablet on the table. Good officers, good people. Their safety would be his responsibility. The placid eyes of their Service mugshots seemed to radiate a certain helplessness, pleading Manwë to assume leadership for the good of them all. He frowned, dispelling the fanciful notion; _arrogance_ , he told himself. These were grown men and women who knew the dangers of what they'd signed up for, and who had been found capable of sustaining the worst hardship imaginable. When he thought about it in those terms, one face entered his mind: his wife's. If anyone could survive on a primeval planet, it was her.

"I will talk to her about it," he agreed, letting go of a breath that seemed to have been trapped in his throat for an age. "I'm sure she'll be just as pleased with the news as I am," he added, which wasn't - technically - a lie.

Eru beamed proudly and raised his glass. "To Arda," he announced. The pair clinked glasses and took a long drink of whiskey as a thunderstorm raged directly beneath them, setting the grey sky aglow.

* * *

"It's never going to work. Just admit defeat."

Aulë shushed his wife's protests as he tried, in vain, to encourage what little hair remained on his head to cover his ever-widening bald spot. "I had it the other day, you saw!"

"You haven't been able to do a proper combover since you were thirty," she retorted, penciling heavy lines of kohl onto her eyelids. "Just let it go, Aulë, we've all got to get old some time."

"Oh, that's rich," he replied, throwing the comb over his shoulder in exasperation. "Remind me, how many berths did they have to double up on so you could get your supply of foundation on board?"

"A woman is entitled to grow old exactly as slowly as she chooses," his wife called back to him from the bathroom. "You're the ones who insist we look so good in makeup, after all. If you're not going to admit that none of us - man or woman - are as pretty as we pretend we are, then you're stuck with male pattern baldness and middle-age spread."

"All the creams and lotions you've got taking up space in the cabinet," he grumbled, adjusting the collar on a suit he hadn't worn since he was a younger man. "You'd think they'd have come up with the cure for baldness by now."

"Now, why would they do that?" Yavanna replied. "After all, we're told a bald man is 'mature' and 'growing old gracefully'. But a woman past fifty with wrinkles? 'Haggard'. It's the way of the world," she sighed as she watched Aulë approach her from behind in the mirror. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist and kissed her cheek.

"Well, it won't be the way of _our_ world, will it?" he whispered, cradling his wife. They admired themselves in the mirror; neither of them were exactly growing old gracefully, and neither had any plans to. Another family who had been devastated by the Blight seeking refuge in the depths of space, a little plot of a foreign planet to live out the remainder of their lives together. A silent, constantly-looping short video of a young man jumping down a flight of stairs and colliding with the camera sat beside the mirror, for a second giving the impression that three were present instead of two.

"Come on," Aulë said quietly to break Yavanna out of her reverie. "Let's not keep them waiting." Dressed to the nines, they made their way across the ship to Áron's, the Officers-only restaurant in the revolving observation lounge extending out of A-deck. They took the 'scenic route' - shuttles that snaked their way around the outside of the ship to offer unbroken views of the vastness of space beyond - to get themselves accustomed to the panoramic view of Arda's face the circular restaurant allowed. As they exited the shuttle in the bay outside the restaurant, Melkor and Enwe were already waiting for them.

"Evening, Boss," Aulë greeted Melkor as they clasped hands. "You're looking a lot better than you have been lately."

"Working from home," Melkor replied, a rictus grin plastered onto his face. "It's helped me relax."

"That's not all that's helped you relax," Enwe added, pulling herself close to Melkor's side. She was laced into an impossibly tight, body-hugging dress that bared everything above the chest. Sparkling sequins shimmered like scales across the curve of her hip and down her leg, not so much catching the light as seeming to imprison it. "Enwe," she introduced herself to Aulë, extending a hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Aulë took her hand clumsily and burbled, "Uh…p-pleased to meet you too, Miss." Yavanna rolled her eyes. "Good of you both to suggest we meet before you start working under me."

Enwe froze momentarily, her wide, rosy-cheeked smile immobile. "Our pleasure," she replied effusively, turning to Aulë's wife. "And you must be Yavanna," she said, offering her hand once more. "I hear you're unparalleled in dendrogenesis."

Yavanna took Enwe's hand and bristled as a chill went through her body. Something about her set the biologist on edge; a kind of emptiness, a hunger, lay beneath the skin, seemingly enhanced by the utter blackness of her dress. "You're too kind," she replied, forcing a smile.

"Shall we go inside?" Melkor announced, breaking the tension a little. They filed into the restaurant and were seated with surprising rapidity by an extremely courteous maître d'; evidently Melkor's good graces amongst the more influential of the officers were beginning to filter down into the rank-and-file. Arda loomed, as though rising, in the edgeless window beside them.

"I can't believe they gave us such a good table," Aulë said as he watched clouds race across the north pole with the breathless awe of a child.

"Yes, I was under the impression that Engineering was…well…a rather _uncool_ department," Yavanna added, eyeing her husband amusedly. From the corner of her eye, Enwe's bust appeared to rise three inches as she inhaled sharply, her huge eyes narrowing.

"They all say that," Melkor replied, "until something goes wrong. Then it's all please and thank you," he laughed, surreptitiously squeezing Enwe's hand beneath the table as though commanding her to relent. A ripple of laughter went around the table as waiters approached with complementary wine. The glass had barely touched the table before Yavanna had snatched it up and taken a healthy swig.

The atmosphere of the meal, though never frosty, never got above tepid due to the "war of wills" between Yavanna and Enwe, as Aulë would later term it. Most of the conversation between the two seemed to turn to the respective brilliance of their partners; while Aulë had interjected frequently - mostly out of embarrassment - to steer them towards a new topic, Melkor had appeared oddly satisfied with the eagerness and passion with which Enwe would sing his praises, leaning back in his chair with an odd smile on his face.

Course after course arrived at their table, many of which they hadn't even ordered - "with the chef's compliments," was the unvarying explanation. Never one to pass on a free meal, Aulë had gorged himself, piling his plate high with cured meats, stuffed mushrooms, fresh shellfish and other delicacies. When at last the flow of food had stopped, the four sat satiated as Arda began to sink beneath the window, the observation lounge continuing its unceasing turn. Aulë unfastened the lowest button of his tunic as Melkor lit a cigarette.

"I think I'll go and freshen up," Yavanna announced.

"Me too," Enwe added quickly, springing up from her seat like a cat. A tense look passed between the two, fixed smiles glinting, before they made their way to the restrooms together. Once they were out of earshot, Melkor took a long drag of his cigarette and pulled himself closer to the table.

"I should have warned you," he said apologetically, "she can be…quite passionate."

Aulë grunted non-committally. "It's no problem," he said, "I'm sure she's a perfectly capable girl; as long as she follows orders she'll be right as rain."

"Oh, she does at that," Melkor mumbled, a strange, lop-sided smile spreading over his face. "But there's just something you need to know before you start work." Aulë raised an eyebrow. "She…won't be working _under_ you. She'll be working _with_ you. I'm issuing her a commission to First Lieutenant."

Aulë's bulky frame swayed forwards. He leaned over the table to look Melkor in the eye. "You…you're not serious?" he blustered.

"I'm entirely serious, Aulë," Melkor replied placidly. "She's an incredibly talented engineer who I think has been wasted in Low Orbit Tech. Two heads are better than one, as they say."

"And too many hands spoil the primordial broth!" Aulë retorted, real anger beginning to rise in him. "You know we're at a critical stage right now; if the biosphere doesn't take, we're going to have to reset the tectonics and start the continent design from scratch. A new, unexperienced officer joining us at this stage is a disaster waiting to happen!"

"I'll vouch for her," Melkor pre-empted him. "Her mind is…exceptional. It's _because_ we're at such a critical stage that I'm convinced we need all the help we can get."

Aulë's eyes narrowed, his jovial looks and rotund body taking on a more threatening, muscular aspect. "Are you sure that's all there is to it?" He demanded, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "Don't you think it's slightly too convenient, your new girlfriend requesting a transfer out of the blue and then being promoted? I know you probably think I'm just a fat old fart, but I'm not as stupid as I look, Melkor."

Melkor's fist came crashing down on the table, the violence of it stiffening Aulë straight. "I will not be accused of nepotism by a subordinate," he hissed, his boyish face twisted in masque-like fury. "For all your talk of following orders, you seem bewilderingly incapable of grasping this one: where you go, she goes. What you do, she checks. When she has a question, you answer it. And don't you _ever_ question if I'm doing what I think is best for the department again. And Aulë?"

Aulë remained stock-still in his chair, his thick jaw tight and eyes blazing. Melkor leaned forward, craning his neck out like a lizard.

"I may be younger than you, but I'm still your commanding officer. And as long as that's the case, you will address me by my proper title. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Aulë replied, seething. As if on cue, Yavanna and Enwe returned to the table, smiles still conspicuously in place. Melkor shrunk back slowly, sitting tall in his chair, like a cat surveying its territory.

"Is it worth me asking if you want dessert?" Yavanna asked her husband as she took her seat beside him.

"No," Aulë replied, his eyes still locked with Melkor's as the young man took a drag of his cigarette and allowed smoke to billow out of his nostrils. "No, I don't think I will. I think we should get going."

Yavanna's eyes widened and Enwe raised an eyebrow. Aulë could tell she had guessed what had caused the obvious friction in the air. "What, now? Are you alright, Aulë?"

"I'm fine," he said, a touch too loudly. Twenty-five years of marriage told Yavanna that no, he wasn't fine, and they really did have to leave right now. "Just…very tired. Probably overeaten. Goodnight, Enwe," he said, gripping his wife's hand. "Goodnight, Commander," he added more coldly. Melkor inclined his head as Aulë and Yavanna left without a backward glance.

The rosy-cheeked smile on Enwe's face faded slowly as their guests retreated. "He didn't take it well, then?"

"No," Melkor replied, stubbing his cigarette out on the tablecloth. "Not well at all."


	7. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 7

A chill chased the warm red wine down Varda's throat, setting off a coughing fit. "What?" She said as she recovered.

"The Captain wants me to be the commander of the Arda Mission," he repeated. Varda set her glass down slowly, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. She'd been looking forward to their first private dinner together in weeks, a chance to reconnect; now, it just seemed like their lives were doomed to become more complicated by the minute.

"I thought," she began, unable to finish. "I didn't think-"

"He recommended me personally," he explained. "Said I was 'wasted as a First Officer' and was 'ready for my own command'."

"Is it an order?" Varda finally managed to say.

"No," Manwë replied breezily, picking at his food. He'd pulled some strings at Áron's and managed to get the chef's special delivered straight to their quarters, but even the succulent viands on his plate couldn't distract his attention. "No-one can be ordered to take feet," he explained, slipping into the casual terminology of the Corps, "it's an entirely voluntary process. But Eru's personal recommendation is…not something to be taken lightly," he said, blowing hard.

"Are you going to accept?" She asked.

Manwë shrugged. "Depends, doesn't it?"

Varda scoffed at his nonchalance. "On what?"

His gaze locked with hers, his face wearing the smile she found so endearing.

Instantly, Varda understood. She giggled despite herself, blushing like a schoolgirl. "Oh, come on," she blurted, "the junior officers are barely trained; if I leave them now, they might turn the next planet into a slag heap!" Low Orbit Tech had been poorly-staffed from the get-go; the majority of experts in the field had elected to remain on Ain to try and heal their planet, convinced that the solution to the havoc wreaked by the Blight lay in evacuation to space stations orbiting the ruined surface while satellites tried to repair the damage.

"They're big boys and girls," Manwë countered, leaning across the table to take his wife's hands. "They'll survive. That's what books are for. Come on, imagine it. An entire planet to ourselves."

"Ourselves and a thousand other people," Varda complained half-heartedly as Manwë brought her hands to his lips.

"Have you seen what the colony's going to look like?" He asked, kissing her wrist. She eyed him slyly. Of course she had – it had been plastered on every holographic billboard around the ship, a promise of what was to come. A sublime blend of the most sophisticated Ain technology, and the most beautiful craftsmanship of antiquity. Towering stone spires topped with glowing neon lights, mighty golden domes ringed with the pale blue thrum of electricity. It was a cross between a fairytale and a fever dream. "I think you could deal with it," he purred.

"I'm not some silly little girl you can buy off with promises of the life of a princess," Varda said stubbornly, her pulse rising as Manwë's rough fingers traced a line down her slender forearm. "I'm a scientist and a professional, and I have a duty to see that my department becomes self suf-" Manwë kissed her wrist again, his teeth grazing the skin. "-ficient," she finished, her voice dissipating into a breath.

Manwë leaned in close to his wife. "Sod it," he whispered, kissing her passionately. She dug her fingers into his short, golden hair, sending her wine glass tumbling as they brought their bodies closer together over the table.

"You're always going on about duty," she said breathlessly as they parted, their faces barely an inch apart. "Training the juniors is mine."

"No," Manwë growled, "your duty is to take care of the satellites. That's your job. My job is to command. Let's do both together," he said, kissing her again.

"We'd be leaving almost everyone we know," she said as Manwë began to kiss her neck. "We'd have to see the same people every day for the rest of our lives."

"We live on a spaceship," Manwë replied sardonically. "You'd feel wind and rain again. Who knows, one day, maybe even sunlight."

Varda groaned – and not just because of Manwë's wandering hands. At the time the Iluvátar had set off, it had been almost a generation since an Ainur had felt sunlight; for people of Manwë and Varda's age, it was a distant childhood memory. "Tell me more," she whispered.

Manwë scooped his wife up in his arms and threw her onto the bed as she squealed with delight. "Fruit," he said, his hands entwining with hers as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. "Real fruit, growing from the vine. Sea, and sand beneath your feet."

Varda let out a groan of pleasure as Manwë shifted his weight on top of her, his hips parting her legs. "And stars," she sighed, "that twinkle."

"All this and more," Manwë promised her, running rough fingers through her long, dark curls. Varda's heart beat so hard she feared it would break from her chest.

"Yes," she whispered in Manwë's ear as he kissed down her neck, their meal entirely forgotten.

* * *

A dark cloud hung over the party seated, as they so often were, around Ulmo's table. Aulë's bad news had put paid to game night this week. Tulkas' dark-eyed distrust of Melkor had swollen into murderous rage, barely restrained by Nessa's calmer head.

"That back-stabbing little prick!" He roared,, not for the first time that night, slamming a bottle of beer onto the table so hard its contents shot skyward like a geyser. "It's not right. Not right at all. There must be something against it in the regulations," he said, eyeing Nessa.

"I'm afraid not," she replied. "As Chief of Engineering he's entitled to issue field commissions if he feels it's necessary. The Captain can countermand it, of course, but I doubt he'll question Melkor's decision."

"I honestly never thought of him as a… _cruel_ person before," Aulë mumbled, running his thumb along the mouth of his bottle. "But the moment I questioned his reasons for promoting her…" He trailed off, shuddering.

"Something about _her_ , though," Yavanna interjected, "was just not right. I got a sense of it from the moment I met her," she said, her lips pursed and head continually shaking in subconscious disdain. "You know, when you can just… _feel_ the wrong on some people?" The party nodded solemnly in agreement.

"When she was chasing Ulmo", Nessa replied, "she just came across as slightly pathetic to me. A bit desperate."

"No, this was different," Yavanna retorted immediately, sitting forward. "She wasn't pathetic at all, she was…she felt dangerous, like she was his guard dog or something. Like a wild animal he'd trained to protect him."

"I should have kept my mouth shut," Aule groaned, rubbing his callused hands over his face. "Cornered him about it when he wasn't expecting it. He went there knowing we were going to have a fight, and he was ready for one," he concluded.

"You were right to do it," Ulmo opined, his usually-theatrical voice deep and serious. "A more experienced officer would have understood that with the situation as it is; they're seeing each other, she's just got a transfer; putting her in a position of such importance-"

"One she's unqualified to do!" Yavanna spat, her brow knotted in fury.

"One she's unqualified to do," Ulmo agreed, "would show favouritism. Well…a more conscientious officer, at least," he finished darkly.

"I said it," Tulkas chimed in, his bushy beard quivering with anger. "I bloody said it. The inside of that boy's head wants examining. He's not normal."

A sigh of agreement passed around the table as gloomy silence descended upon them again.

* * *

Varda traced patterns in the curls of the short hair that covered Manwë's chest. Her slender fingers traced invisible lines across his body, familiar and comfortable. They sat naked together, ensconced in pillows, bodies entwined.

"I lied to Nienna," she said quietly, burying her face into Manwë's chest. "I told her our sex life was fine."

Manwë laughed weakly. "Bloody Touched," he breathed. "They're obsessed with it."

"But it hasn't been," Varda complained, wrapping her arm tighter around Manwë's waist. "It's felt like we've been neglecting each other. We've both been so busy."

"Yeah," Manwë agreed with a sigh. "I suppose things have…got in our way, a bit."

"Will it be different on Arda?"

Manwë paused. "Yes," he said at length, turning to face his wife. "Yes, I promise."

She smiled and kissed him, breathing in his scent. "Who are you going to take?" She asked.

Manwë stretched and settled deeper on the pillows. "I haven't decided on everyone yet," he replied, "but a couple of names stand out. Ulmo, definitely." Varda nodded in agreement. "Irmo, from Medical, and his wife…Ista?"

"Estë," Varda corrected him.

"Whatever," he grunted. "And Melkor, of course," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Varda shot up from Manwë's side, rising to meet her husband's gaze. "What do you mean, 'of course'?" she said flatly.

Manwë's brow knitted in confusion. "I mean…of course, of course," he said, laughing.

"As in, there's not even going to be debate?"

Manwë groaned and rolled his eyes. "Varda, he's the best engineer on a ship of geniuses, and besides which, he's my brother. I would never forgive myself if I left him here, alone."

Varda scoffed. "Oh, would it hurt his feelings for big brother to have a life of his own and not have his little brother trotting after him?"

"You know that's not what I mean," Manwë sighed, getting up from the bed and slipping a robe on.

"Well, what DO you mean?" Varda pressed him.

Manwë sighed heavily. "You're an only child," he said. "You don't know what it's like." He looked at the ground guiltily before continuing. "When you lost your dad, you only had to worry about yourself. I had to look after a scared boy, I had to be another father for him – while dealing with our own father's affairs. I have you, but he doesn't have _anyone_ else."

"He doesn't have anyone else because he's a…he's a…bastard!" Varda spluttered indignantly.

"Doesn't matter," Manwë retorted. "He's my brother. You don't give up on family, no matter what," he said as he retired to the bathroom in a temper. "I don't expect you to understand it, but I'd like you to at least appreciate it," he shouted through the closed door.

The warmth of the wine and Manwë's residual body heat finally left Varda. She bristled, naked on the bed, and wrapped the sheet around her like a chrysalis. For yet another night, she was to force herself to sleep.

* * *

"Morning, Commander!"

"Morning, Boss!"

"Alright, Sir?"

Melkor manoeuvred silkily through a crowd of junior officers and crewmen. They had seemed to multiply in number lately, conspicuously hanging around his office when he was present or the shuttle bays when he was due to arrive. A few perfunctory nods and mouthed nothings and the crowd melted away, pleased with itself, as he pressed on to his office. The rictus smile on his face dropped into a blank scowl as soon as the door closed behind him, locking him once more in his snug metal womb above the factory floor.

"On," he commanded the computer, resuming where he had left off the night before. The great holographic globe reappeared in the centre of the circular room, rapidly becoming cluttered with lists of numbers and calculations. The latest series of changes to the planet had been much more subtle, and thus more difficult to manage, and Melkor had given the task his full attention for some time. Officially, Arda was to have no ice-caps at its poles, the better to navigate the planet. Melkor had been quietly using satellites, one or two at a time so as not to arouse suspicion, to disperse aerosolised liquid oxygen into the atmosphere at the northern pole. While his calculations had shown he couldn't possibly freeze the entire pole this way, he could tip the equilibrium just far enough to cause a permanent cycle of freezing.

For hours, he watched as satellites, rendered as dots of light, floated across the surface of his holographic planet. As one of Engineering's satellites drifted back to base at the end of its mission, he redirected it to the north pole and began his process, a few minutes at a time. Numbers and bars floated just beyond his eyeline, detailing the exact amounts of raw materials being deposited and his proximity to the icing threshold.

The chime of the bell broke his concentration and nearly sent him ordering a satellite into a death-dive. "Come!" he barked as he quickly hid the display.

Aulë entered, grim-faced. The pair hadn't seen each other since two nights previous, when Melkor had brutally gerrymandered Aulë's operation. "Commander," he greeted him gruffly.

"Problem, Lieutenant?" Melkor asked, trying his best to look placid.

"Day's supply inventory," he replied, thrusting a tablet under Melkor's nose. "All awaiting your mark."

Melkor gave the list a cursory glance before pressing his thumb to the tablet face. He handed it back dismissively, his eyes pointedly avoiding his lieutenants'.

"Thank you, Sir," Aulë said quietly, pressing his own thumb to the tablet. "I was thinking we were going through more liquid oxygen than normal recently," he said, almost conversationally, as the tablet's face turned a warm green in confirmation. "Can't for the life of me think why. But I'm sure you know best, Sir," he said with a politeness that bordered on chilling.

"Is that all?" Melkor replied bluntly.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." And Aulë turned on his heels and exited without another word.

As the door swept shut with a gentle _ping_ , Melkor leapt to his feet and sent a deskful of materia cascading to the floor in a rage. That man…his insolence made his blood boil. But beneath the anger, the same fear that had so recently gripped him lay freshly roused. For all his bluff and bluster, Aulë really was – in his own words – not as stupid as he looked. Given enough time and sufficient leeway, he'd figure it out soon enough. Plans would have to be laid; plans more extreme than any Melkor had yet formed.

His bloody-minded schemes were stopped in their tracks by an irritating whistle from his workstation: a new message. "Play," he spat, newly angry at being interrupted.

"Hi, Melkor, it's me," came his brother's voice. Melkor rolled his eyes and sat down heavily in his seat. What did he want now?

"Look…I'm not sure I should be telling you this right now, but I know you won't go spreading it around-" _What does he mean by that, the patronising bast-_ "Eru wants me to command Arda. Varda's coming with me…and I want you for Chief Engineer." He paused. "If you want, that is. Varda's already looking forward to it." He paused. "I think." He cleared his throat. "Anyway…keep it quiet, yeah? See you soon."

As soon as the message ended Melkor replayed it. By the end of the second playback his face had split into a mad, wide smile. He played it back again, the flesh of his forearms creeping with anticipation as he heard his brother tell him that his place on Arda, as a Senior Officer, in a position of unprecedented power and prestige, was assured. His plans could continue unchecked, unstoppable, and far removed from the Iluvátar's authority.

"Computer," he said with relish, "send a message to Crewmember Enwe." The computer bleeped in response.

"Enwe," he said, "good news."


	8. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 8

The bridge was as busy as it had ever been, swarming with ceaseless activity over all four levels. Manwë frowned as, time and again, he had to force his bulky frame against the wall to allow streams of technicians past, their heads buried in print-outs and chirruping tablet devices. They had entered the final stage of the transformation of Arda; the storms that had wracked the planet for weeks had finally subsided, leaving behind a pristine landscape of rolling plains, sandy beaches and sky-scraping forests.

A few things hadn't gone to plan, of course. Huge mountain ranges had appeared around the northern edges of the twin continents, leading to a near-total ice cap and freezing conditions even far to their south. On the eastern continent, too, offshoots of the great northern mountains snaked down the latitudes like the spines of serpents, forbidding and impassable. But it was too late to do much about it, and many of the crew had opined that they preferred the planet this way; it looked "more real", as many of them muttered.

Manwë flicked through his report one last time. His proposed senior officers stood in a line on the screen, staring blankly. His review was cut short by a buzz from the intercom beside him – the Captain's sign for him to enter.

"Good morning, Mister Mate," the Captain greeted him, immediately signalling him to sit as Manwë reflexively stood to attention. "Looking good, isn't she?" Eru asked, wheeling his chair back to better show Arda in the window. The planet glowed softly beneath them, a sea of blue and white, calm and inviting.

"She certainly is, Sir," Manwë replied.

"Not _exactly_ as I would have wanted her," the Captain continued, "but, like any child, the moment you first see her you know – immediately – that she's perfect." He sighed wistfully, craning forward as though he would suddenly take flight through the forcefield and float down to his beloved creation.

"She's ours," Manwë replied simply, "we made her, all of us. We all feel as proud as any parent would."

"Do you and Varda plan to have children someday, Manwë?" Eru asked. Manwë's eyes widened at the unexpected question.

"Well…ahm," he stuttered, unprepared. He hadn't even discussed it with his wife, let alone his captain. "I'm not sure, Sir," he replied, "I had always assumed that…maybe…some day?"

"If you want my advice," the Captain said, still staring down at Arda's surface, "do it. Nothing will give you more satisfaction than knowing you've brought into being something which will outlive and outdo you." He turned to face Manwë, his eyes sick with pain. "I lost my sons to the Blight," he said softly, his stolid countenance briefly faltering. Manwë nodded solemnly. "Beautiful boys, brilliant. When they were taken, my grief wasn't just that I had lost my children…it was that Ain had lost two of the greatest men she would ever know, before she ever truly knew them."

"My heart is broken for you, Sir," Manwë mumbled.

Eru inhaled sharply, dispelling his misery with brutal, military efficiency. "But now, Ain shall have many more sons, on the surface of Arda," he said, a proud smile returning to his face. "Do you have your report?"

"Yes, Sir," Manwë replied quickly, handing over the tablet. The Captain flicked through it swiftly, skipping and skimming. Mutters and mumbles of assent passed his lips periodically, until suddenly the flicking and mouthing stopped. Manwë squirmed. He knew exactly why he'd stopped; the timing, in fact, was down to the exact second Manwë had predicted.

"Do you remember what I told you the last time we were in this office, Commander?" Eru asked, laying the tablet down at his desk and steepling his fingers. "About why it's so difficult to find good colonial officers?"

"You said you needed someone you could truly rely on," Manwë replied. "Someone who won't crack under the pressure."

"And yet," Eru went on, "you want to take, as Chief Engineer, a man whose record for insubordination – and, let's be honest, just generally _pissing people off_ – is as long as my arm!" He barked.

"There's no questioning Melkor is…difficult to get along with," Manwë said, an understatement if there ever was one, "but there's equally no questioning his genius. And I genuinely believe that he would be far more likely to shape up if he were under my direct command, rather than…erm," he finished, noticing Eru's dangerously rising eyebrow. "What I'm trying to say is," he blurted, recovering quickly, "I'm the only person he'll listen to. If I'm the only authority he has recourse to, he'll quickly learn that it's in everyone's best interest if he just does as he's told."

Eru leaned back in his chair, sucking his gums in contemplation. "I suppose it would be tremendously hypocritical of me to force you to leave your brother here, after I just…" He trailed off, growling.

"Well…yes," Manwë replied with a nervous laugh.

Eru sighed loudly, running both hands over his bald head. "You've put me in a tricky position, Commander," he grumbled. "No matter what your assurances, I can't help but worry that by putting such a troublesome officer in such an environment, we'd be endangering the entire colony. That's something I'm simply not willing to do." Manwë gulped. "But…I think we can come to some kind of arrangement."

"Such as?" Manwë asked eagerly.

Eru leant forward, holding Manwë's gaze tight. "Some help. A jobshare," he suggested. "Melkor beat out a very competent and very experienced engineer for his position, only by dint of his unique genius. It had been my hope that with one on Arda and one on-board, we'd be sorted for engineering chiefs on either end, but…well, let's hope we've got a secret genius on board."

"You want Aulë to come too?" Manwë said, following the Captain's train of thought.

"He's more than ready to become a senior officer. Co-Chief, with Melkor. A change in the dynamic of their relationship might do them both good," he said. Manwë shook his head.

"I'm not sure, Sir," he replied, "I think Melkor would feel like Aulë was treading on his toes."

"I don't give a toss if he does a fucking tarantella on them," the Captain replied, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I know everyone's patting Melkor's back over the eruption thing now, but I'm still the polar opposite of impressed with his conduct. He is a proven insubordinate with a dangerous capacity for destruction, and if you want him with you down on that planet, then he WILL have a chaperone – or at least, someone to clean up after his mess."

Manwë seethed. The Captain was beginning to touch a nerve. "I'll run it past him," he said, barely keeping the anger from his voice.

"See that you do," the Captain replied, leaning back into his chair slowly, as an elder wolf settles imperiously after barking down a young upstart. "And make sure you make him _very_ clear that there's to be no negotiation. He accepts, or he stays."

Manwë sat stiff-backed in his chair and nodded tersely. Silence stretched out between them for a few more seconds before Eru motioned to the door and his First Mate left without another word. The Captain turned away to focus on his planet, only to find grey clouds sweeping across the hemisphere, heralding an afterstorm. Even she couldn't soothe his mind right now.

* * *

Varda sat bleary-eyed at her workstation, watching endless streams of numbers flow past her without making any impression. Since her argument with Manwë, she'd spent even more time at work, coming home only to collapse into bed for a few hours' unsatisfying sleep. After three days, she had now reached the stage of insomnia where her every moment was a waking dream; not quite asleep, not quite woken, she stumbled through her duties with a plodding, mechanical gait, her higher consciousness only mildly aware of what was happening and intruding only to allow her access to some higher functions of calculation and judgment.

Even weeks after she had left, Varda still caught herself looking from the corner of her eye for Enwe's figure in the doorway. With her one-time friend now seeming permanently out of the picture, and Manwë having retreated into a grumpy exile, she was alone.

Satellites flew across a holographic planet before her eyes in ordered paths, almost hypnotising her. If she could just stare a little longer, lose herself to the rhythm, she might find some kind of rest. Like a magician's watch swinging before the volunteer's eyes, like the regular timbre of his voice as he counted down from ten, it guided her slowly into-

_What was that?_

Something broke the flow. Something was different. Varda blinked hard, forcing her eyes to refresh and re-look. After some minutes, she spotted it.

One of the satellites was gone.

With a sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach reinvigorating her with nervous energy, Varda set to work. Expanding the floating globe before her with a hand gesture, she ordered the computer to retrace the steps of the satellites. As the hologram slowed and began to spin in the opposite direction, she scoured the image for the tell-tale sign of deviation. Tiny dots of light flew slowly backwards, eating up their iridescent trails until – _there._ A new dot of light appeared on the globe. Varda gasped. Somehow, eight minutes ago, one of her satellites disappeared.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. It simply wasn't possible; even if the internal tracking hardware had malfunctioned, the software in the other satellites was programmed to track its missing brother via radiolocation. If the satellite had fallen out of orbit, a distress call would have immediately registered – it was the most basic level of its construction.

"Did anyone see that-" she called out across the bay, only to realise she was alone. She dimly remembered there being other people around her at one point, but how long ago that had been, she couldn't say. How long had it been since she'd sat down?

With enough adrenaline coursing through her to keep her awake and lucid for a week, Varda set to work, pulling up the real-time specs of all active satellites. According to the computer, there were twenty-three satellites above the surface of Arda, mostly concerning themselves with monitoring conditions on the surface in anticipation of the first Scout team setting foot on the planet.

She then turned her attention to the most recent activity log – satellites transmitted details such as position, elevation, speed and occupation to the central computer on the Iluvátar every minute, on the minute. She scrolled back through the minutes immediately after her attention was roused, until her theory was confirmed – the activity log counted twenty-four satellites one minute, twenty-three the next.

Varda tried every method she could think of to locate the missing satellite, only to come up empty. She was forced to conclude that the satellite was no longer in orbit around Arda, which opened up an entirely more disturbing series of conclusions; namely, that the satellite had somehow been immediately destroyed, in some way fast enough to prevent even a distress or emergency signal from being broadcast.

The satellite had disappeared over Arda's huge, encircling ocean; if it had broken up or exploded, any debris – if, indeed, any survived – would be long lost to the deep. Varda mouthed frantically as ideas popped in and out of her head, until at last a good one stuck. "Contact Surveillance, any available officer," she commanded the computer. A floating screen appeared before her, quickly filled with a face.

"First Lieutenant Nessa here, how can I help you, Commander?"

"Lieutenant," Varda addressed her, "I need to know if any of the external cannons have been activated or fired in the last hour."

Nessa frowned slightly. "Ma'am?"

Varda sighed. "One of the satellites is down," she said quietly, out of her own embarrassment rather than fear of her non-existent colleagues eavesdropping. "I'm exploring every possible explanation."

"Right you are, Commander," Nessa replied smartly. Several seconds of silence passed, broken only by the _tap-tap-tap_ of Nessa's fingers flitting across the keys of her workstation. "None of the external cannons have been activated in the last hour," she informed her, scanning through reams of information, absorbing it easily. "In fact, none of them have been activated since last week's routine test firing," she said with an apologetic look.

Varda cursed silently. She'd known it couldn't possibly have been that simple, but she would have gladly taken it. Another idea came to her. "How far do the ship's external sensors extend?"

"More than far enough to reach the thermosphere, Commander," Nessa replied with a smirk, already ahead of her. "When exactly did you lose tracking, and where?"

"Sending the co-ordinates now," Varda replied, dragging the activity log through the air with a finger and flicking it into the screen.

"Okay then," Nessa said under her breath, her fingers flying to input the numbers, "let's see what happened out there." A second screen bloomed before Varda's eyes, as it did before Nessa's, showing a fuzzy grey half-sphere with blue dots traversing its surface. "The picture's false-colour," Nessa explained as they watched, "it's just a very basic echolocation at this dist-"

Both fell silent simultaneously as the same impossible event transpired on their screens. The blue dot crept slowly across the grey planet's face, before disappearing without warning. "I don't understand," Nessa mumbled, rewinding and replaying the footage. "If it had exploded the sensors would have definitely picked up the blast, it's as if it just-"

"Disappeared," Varda finished for her. Nessa said some more, but it went through one ear and out the other; Varda was lost within herself, searching her mind for possibilities to explain the impossible. A freak weather event, a sudden shift in the gravitational field, a spontaneous wormhole appearing in that exact area of the atmosphere – each more fantastical than the last, and none of them even close to explaining what-

"-COMMANDER!"

Varda nearly leapt out of her seat as Nessa's voice blared through the speakers. "What?" She blurted. Nessa just pointed to her screen, her mouth agape with surprise. Varda squinted at the screen, and her heart skipped a beat.

The satellite was back.

"It just…appeared," Nessa said, showing live footage from the ship's sensors over their shared screen. She rewound it and, sure enough, a blue dot appeared from nowhere as if someone had spliced two reels together. Varda checked her own screens; twenty-four satellites again. "Perhaps a storm masked the satellite's presence and interfered with its hardware?" Nessa suggested.

"Not possible," Varda muttered, "no storm could ever reach that high."

"That's what I thought," Nessa replied, "and it's still the best idea I have."

Varda looked at her sadly. "Me too."

* * *

Some hours later, Melkor's computer blinked. _Incoming call_ , it told him. _Commander Varda – Priority VALA_.

"Hello, sister-in-law," Melkor drawled as he accepted the call. Varda grimaced, unable to stop herself. Her screen was filled with an image of Melkor looking down at her, as though she were kneeling before him. Even by his standards, it was crass.

"Is your workstation broken?" She asked. Melkor shrugged.

"I'm on the tablet. I like working on the floor. Helps me relax. I'm told I should do more of it," he said conversationally, enjoying the effect his forced politeness was having on Varda.

"Melkor, have you heard what happened in Low Orbit Tech earlier today?" Varda questioned him, her patience for Melkor's flippancy non-existent.

"Yes, Enwe told me all about it," Melkor replied, wide-eyed with mock interest. "She does keep her ear close to her friends in Low Orbit Tech. Her…other friends, I mean, not…well, that's between the pair of you." Varda bristled, her nostrils flaring dangerously. "A real mystery, isn't it? A whole satellite, just completely disappearing for an hour!"

Varda swallowed hard. Melkor's mocking tones reminded her of how Enwe used to be; effusive, expressive and exaggerated. Not content with turning her into a cold, superficial monster like himself, was he now parading her old personality before her, wearing it like the pelt of a slaughtered animal, to humiliate her?

"It's not to be laughed at, and you know it," she replied. "If one of our satellites can go off the grid for that long, it means someone on the inside is sabotaging us."

Melkor nodded slowly, running his tongue over his teeth. "I did wonder why you engaged Vala priority for this call," he said, leaning close enough to the camera that Varda could see his pores. "Confidential. Unrecorded. What happens in this call, stays there. Isn't that right, Varda?"

"I'm heading an investigation into what happened," she told him, with a certain amount of relish. "Luckily, the Captain considers this matter just as serious as I do. And Melkor?" She leaned closer to her camera, refusing to bite. "If I find out you were behind this," she hissed, "If I learn you're sabotaging this mission, I swear by the Five Heavens, I will put you in an airlock and I will watch you choke."

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Melkor replied, his voice mellifluous as ever, "but I am going to disappoint you. Goodnight, Varda." His smiling, boyish face disappeared from her screen, leaving her seething in rage.

Melkor turned the tablet off and straightened up, stretching his back and arms out. He turned to survey the wreckage which had once been his quarters. His workstation fizzed and hissed alarmingly where he had driven the lamp through its main console, and his bedding looked like a wild animal had become entangled in it. Clumps of wadding were strewn from pillar to post, and scraps of cloth floated down from the light fittings and exposed communication cables like confetti.

Melkor tutted, momentarily feeling ashamed of himself; the feeling, however, passed quickly. After all, Melkor told himself, it was Eru's own fault for denying Melkor what was rightfully his and insisting on such a humiliating and embarrassing measure. And it was only out of respect for his brother that he'd waited until he'd left the room. The way they'd both treated him, he'd have thought they believed him to be mad.


	9. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 9

**Apologies for the lateness of this update.**

* * *

"Are you okay?" Manwë asked his wife in hushed tones.

"Oh…I'm fine," Varda replied, not meeting his eyes. She buried her gaze in her tablet, ostensibly skimming through the agenda of the upcoming meeting, but her thoughts were miles away.

After what had seemed like countless weeks since the senior officers for the Arda Project were announced, preparations had finally been made for their first meeting. Initial attempts had been vetoed by Captain Eru, who was unimpressed by Manwë's vision for a low-key, informal meeting in the Officer's Bar. The ship's most opulent space, the Ainur Lounge, had been commandeered, to "better reflect the luminary nature of its purpose", in the words of the Captain. Its long mahogany table, varnished to a mirror shine, was flanked by rows of large, wing-backed leather chairs, each riveted with silver fittings and imposing enough to make even their least distinguished occupant seem the very spectre of dread. From the marble tiles on the floor to the intricate stucco-work that covered the ceiling and walls, every part of the room had been designed in the style redolent of Ain's Golden Age – long past by the time of their departure from their homeworld. The entire port wall was removed and replaced with a forcefield, to allow unimpeded views of Arda below; even Manwë had to accept that it was more than just symbolism, choosing to have the meeting here.

"Don't let the venue get to you," Manwë reassured her, stroking the back of her neck. They sat alone in the intimidatingly large room, awaiting the arrival of the other seniors. "It's just a fashion statement."

Varda forced a smile, her head still bowed. Melkor had consumed her thoughts for months, but doubly so after the conclusion of her investigation; for all the legwork she'd done, every attempt she'd made to find some smoking gun to link Melkor to the disappearance of the satellite, she was forced to conclude that no such evidence existed. All the signs pointed, instead, in one direction: simple negligence, albeit with some minor sins of omission. It had transpired that one of the researchers in Physic had colluded with Lieutenant Vana in Biotech to do some off-the-books testing of their latest breakthrough, a matter transporter, and decided to use the transfer of satellites from Engineering to Biotech as their testing-ground. While the test itself was a complete success, it appeared one of the devices used to transport the satellites had been erroneously left behind afterwards. Due to a random, momentary fluctuation in the radio signal, the device on the satellite had activated and sent it back to where it had come from; Engineering, where no-one was any the wiser to the fact that one of their cargo bays was now one satellite heavier. When the signal refreshed itself on schedule, the satellite was transported right back to its last position.

With no real harm done, the Captain wasn't inclined to throw the book at the responsible parties; but Varda's heart still burned with a sense of injustice, that somehow Melkor had pulled the wool well and truly over her eyes. It was entirely illogical, of course, for her to believe that a lack of evidence pointed not to Melkor's innocence but to a cunning even greater than anyone had imagined, but still the words came to the forefront of her mind every time she saw his smug, angelic face in her files:  _I do not trust you._

"I'm not worried," she said, turning to face her husband. "I'm not the chair." Manwë scoffed mirthlessly; though a natural commander, he despised meetings. He felt they stifled the effectiveness of the chain of command rather than enchanced it; he was much more in favour of short, one-on-one discussions. In the weeks between informing the seniors of their selection and the day of the meeting, he'd spent every spare hour preparing himself for the chaotic tedium of fourteen people trying to speak at once.

The gilded doors in the middle of the long starboard wall slid open, and the first of the officers arrived. "Good crowd," Nessa said flippantly, eyeing the rows of empty seats. "Afternoon, Sir, Ma'am," she greeted them both, standing to attention.

"At ease, Lieutenant," Manwë said, rising slowly. "I don't run so formal an operation as Captain Eru. Please, take a seat." Nessa relaxed and took the seat two places down from Manwë.

"Am I early?" She asked, pulling a small, palm-sized tablet from a pack on her hip.

"Not by much," Manwë replied, checking his watch. "I'm sure the others will be along presently."

"Well, before they do," Nessa said, "I'd just like to thank you personally for letting me be a part of this. When I got your message…I thought it was my friend Tulkas messing with me," she laughed.

"Well, you're very welcome," Manwë said warmly, "but really, you deserve to be here. It was Commander Varda who let me know of your exemplary performance throughout her recent investigation." Varda smiled at Nessa, who blushed; her pale, freckled skin betrayed any flickering of emotion, whether pride or anger. Nessa, intrigued by the mystery of the disappearing satellite, had gone above and beyond in aiding Varda's investigation; not just by applying her seasoned eye to the path of culpability Varda had formulated and guiding its progress, but by sitting and trawling through hours of readings and records from every sensor and scanner on the ship, pointing the investigation towards Engineering – and eventually, to Physic. "With eyes as keen as yours, I'm sure nothing will escape our sight."

"Sucking up already, Nessa?" Came a familiar voice from behind her. Ulmo crossed the floor to Manwë's side. "You're learning this game fast," he muttered, "the Commander here was just the cook when we set out from Ain." Manwë smiled, refusing to bite.

"Nice to see you again, too, Commander," he greeted him, clapping his shoulder and gesturing he take the chair by his side. "Did you happen to see any of our comrades?"

"Aulë and Yavanna took the shuttle behind mine," he explained, turning on his own tablet. "I think Vana and Oromë were with them, too. They should be here any-"

As if on cue, the gilded doors slid open and revealed the four of them. Vana, every bit as tall as her willowy sister, nonetheless was positively dwarfed by her massive husband, who cast the whole gathering in his shadow. Oromë, appointed to the role of Head of Reconnaissance on Arda, grasped Manwë's hand in a crushing grip in wordless greeting. "Well met, Lieutenant Commander", he grunted, withdrawing his hand at the earliest opportunity.

Oromë eyed the fittings with distaste. "Bit plain, isn't it?" he said with his trademark pithiness. A ripple of laughter passed around the table as the newcomers took to their seats. Some minutes passed in idle chatter before the next pair, Irmo and his wife Estë, arrived; a tall, birch-like man with long blonde hair in a queue at the back of his head, and a beautiful young woman with skin the colour of burnished wood and eyes so bright they were almost white.

"Vash'en 't'na, Commander," Estë greeted Manwë, her full-length white skirt sweeping the floor as she performed the short curtsey common of her people. One of the few inhabitants of the Burning North to join the crew of the Iluvátar, Manwë had had little doubt that her presence on their new home – in addition to being a truly gifted doctor – was doubly significant.

"Vash'ay alah," Manwë returned the greeting. "And hello to you, too, Doctor," he addressed Irmo, who bowed floridly.

"An honour, Commander," he said, pushing back a loose strand of hair from his face as he rose and resettling his round, tinted spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Under the traditional long, white robe of a doctor, golden lace extruded from his collar and cuffs. "Can't tell you how much it means to us to be the first to set foot on the Virgin Mother down there," he gushed, stretching a hand towards Arda in the window as if he would pluck it from the sky. "Bliss beyond words."

"Bliss beyond words," Estë repeated in a low voice, stretching her hand out with Irmo towards the planet, before both sighed loudly together. Awkward coughs sounded out around the table.

Manwë smiled wanly. Irmo and Estë, while their medical credentials weren't in doubt, were regarded with strange looks by most of the crew due to their unorthodox beliefs; the worship of the Virgin Mother – a kind of enlightened paganism – had long fallen out of practice on Ain, and keepers of the "Old Ways", as they were known, were regarded as simpletons at best and agitators at worst. For Manwë's part, he was content to live with a little eccentricity if it brought him the two best doctors on Ain. "Charmed, I'm sure," he replied smoothly, indicating a pair of seats – thankfully – far from his own.

"Will our Vision be appearing in person or will he be doing…his…thing?" Varda asked, sotto voce.

"Oh, he'll be here," Manwë replied happily. "Apparently Aulë's been working on something for him." The doors opened once more and Nienna stepped through, issuing a greeting to the room before crossing to Manwë's side and whispering,  _he's here_. As she went to find her seat, Námo swung into the room.

A collective holding of breath seemed to swell the room like a bubble. Few of them had ever seen him in person; none of them had ever expected to see him walk. But there he stood, large as life; his thin, wrinkled limbs embraced by leather straps in a steel frame. A heavy chestpiece, glowing in the centre, kept him upright and breathing, and a crown of twinkling diodes held his head straight.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said breathily. "Thought that was my job." The tension broke in a round of laughter. Manwë left his chair to put an arm tenderly around Námo's shoulders.

"You alright, Commander?" He asked him quietly. "How does it feel, being in that thing?"

Námo' eyes, yellowed with age, found Manwë's, standing out in a thin, craggy face. He breathed heavily. It seemed to take him a while to find the wherewithal to speak. "Better than the alternative, Commander," he quipped at length.

"Don't let my husband bring the mood down, Commander Manwë," a tiny, dark-haired woman piped up, emerging from behind the Vision. "He's always been a pessimist."

"So," Námo groaned as he began a slow, trudging walk to his seat, "would you be."

"He looks great, Lieutenant Commander Vaïre," Manwë broke the silence that had fallen, shaking her proffered hand. "Much, much better than last I saw him."

Vairë nodded somberly. "It was a bad one. One of the worst I've seen," she muttered. Manwë's heart ached to see the pain in Vairë's eyes. He'd been present for Námo's last prophecy, and its aftermath; it reminded him of his own father's last moments - uncontrollable and insensible, a mockery of the dignity of old age. Seeing him after the sight had passed a withered, sobbing wreck clutching to the bosom of his tear-streaked wife, had been even worse. As much as he adored Varda, Manwë thought, it must be nothing compared to the love Vairë had forNámo; iron-bound and fire-hardened.

Watching Námo ease his withered limbs into hie chair and sigh in relief as he took his seat, Manwë winced. A lifetime at the mercy of the Sight had robbed the old man of his strength while still young. Despite all their technological prowess, there was seemingly nothing that could be one for those few Touched who had what they termed The Hero's Curse, living lives of brief, painful glory as prophets and oracles. Námo was the longest-lived Vision in millennia, and many chalked it down to his unique resilience; a mental toughness and a will to survive which even Oromë would have blushed at. These he had in spades, but Manwë understood intimately that Vairë gave him something stronger than any of those; a reason to live.

As she took took her seat beside her husband, stoking his hand gently, Manwë trudged back to his place at the head of the table. Nienna, who had been in quiet conversation with an almost beet-red Nessa skipped off to her seat and completed the set; all but for one.

"I wouldn't be too concerned," Manwë announced in a bid to lighten the darkening mood, "Commander Melkor was born a week overdue, he's naturally late." A few good-hearted chuckles, but the mood was no less black. As if on cue, the gilded doors swung open for the last time. Melkor, in his black dress uniform, stood in the doorway, surveying the attendees like a general inspecting his troops - or assessing the enemy.

"Glad you could make it, Commander," Manwë said, trailing off as Melkor turned away and headed for the far end of the table. All eyes rEstëd o his as he examined the chair beside Vairë, who smiled politely at him, before he lifted the seat from the ground - a feat of strength most would have thought him incapable of - and carried it to the foot of the table, setting it directly opposite Manwë, and sat down slowly.

"Well, shall we begin?" he asked pleasantly.

Manwë seethed. "Why not?" he replied, through clenched teeth.

* * *

Tulkas belched loudly as the threw the empty bottle at the forcefield, vaporising it in a blinding blue flash.

"Another one."

The young barman flinched and uncorked another bottle of Iluvátar Gold, the ship's own brew, and slid it down the bar to Tulkas' waiting hand. In a single sweep it was gone, and a second later it too had joined its brothers' fate. To the barman's relief, Tulkas didn't immediately ask for another. He looked back at the fridge, practically ravaged, in disbelief. Gold tasted just like a traditional Ain beer, but at barely a fifth the alcohol content, as per ship's regulations. To reach the state of inebriation Tulkas had managed on Gold took a superhuman effort, to which the foot-high mount of glass dust beneath the window and the rocketing blood pressures in Maintenance attested.

"They're all off," Tulkas responded to a question nobody asked. "All my mates." He swayed unsteadily on his stool. "All of them, brilliant enough to warrant a one-way trip to paradise; but not Tulkas," he moaned. "No, he's just a…broken old soldier who doesn't know his arse from his elbow! Why would they want him?" He bellowed. "Another!"

The young barman looked around nervously. The bar – a tiny pop-up at the run-down stern, just a stone's throw from the deafening power plants – was empty but for him and his customer. If he grew violent, no amount of cash in the register would protect him from a broken arm.

"D'you not think," he ventured, "you should have a break?" Tulkas fixed him with a mad stare. "Tell me more," he said quickly, words to mollify and distract any drunk. Tulkas sighed.

"My one regret," he said, "is that the Blight came when I was already old. I had sons," he croaked, "and daughters. Blight took'em. All of 'em. Spared me…the cruellest thing," he slurred. "I watched 'em go, one by one. And when they told us we was probably all sterile, even if you hadn't fallen ill…well, that was the lowest blow of all." The young barman squirmed. Tulkas eyed him blearily. "How old are you, son? 20? 21?"

"I'm nineteen," the barman replied, avoiding Tulkas' gaze.

"You must have been one of the last," he said, "Eighteen year' ago, the last child of Ain was born, d'ya know that?"

The barman coughed uncomfortably. Everyone knew not only the day of the last free-born Ainur child, but his name and blood type. His generation had been fought over by Ain's few remaining armies; a civil war for children. "So, anyway," Tulkas resumed his long-forgotten train of thought, "I signed up here 'cos I had nothing to lose, really. No wife, no kids…no hope. So…that's why I wish that poxy Blight had come earlier. I wish it had taken me," he concluded, lowering his head onto the bar.

"Are you should you wouldn't like to…go for a walk or something, Sir?" the barman asked foolishly. Tulkas looked up at him like a bullock roused mid-gelding.

"A walk?" He repeated, mocking the young man's high, reedy voice. His shiny face ran slick with sweat as Tulkas slammed his fist on the bar. "A walk, he says, does he?" Tulkas swung a huge hand out towards the barman's head, whipping itself out of the way in the nick of time. Spirit bottles crashed to the floor as he skidded backwards into the optics. "Useless whelp!" Tulkas roared. "I'll teach you-" His massive frame hit the ground as he overreached and slipped form his stool. He tried in vain to right himself, but his addled limbs refused to cooperate. With a sob, he shrunk back down to the floor. The barman vaulted the counter and lifted Tulkas' upper body, cradling him in his arms.

"They're me reason to live," the huge man groaned between sobs. "If I didn't have them…if I didn't have her…" his sobbing subsided as his head lolled forward, replaced by loud snoring.


	10. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 10

**You waited so long for another chapter that it would be remiss of me not to make up for the deficit. Two chapters in two days, aren't you lucky?**

**\- Phil**

* * *

The meeting had so far not gone as badly as Manwë had feared. It had gone much, much worse.

Melkor's megalomaniacal entrance had set the tone; for every point of order brought up, Melkor found angles from which to attack it. He grilled his comrades for answers over even the most trivial points, cross-examining them like criminals in the dock. No solution, no suggestion raised would please him; one-by-one each presentation had met with scorn. Tempers began to fray; more than one officer had accused Melkor of venturing opinions on matters in which he had no expertise. And always, his excuse was the same –  _I'm just playing Devil's advocate_ , he would say, _looking out for the best interests of the colony._  The words had been repeated so many times that Nessa had started joining in under her breath.

When his own turn had come around, Melkor had milked the moment for all it was worth, promising an Arda which was beautiful and awe-inspiring, and a dedication to the betterment of Ain life which could not be surpassed. His plans for the infrastructure of the colony's information network were well-received, but at times his speech felt less presentation, more propaganda, as if he were actively craving adulation. The room breathed a silent sigh of relief when he finally reached an end, having spoken for longer than all the previous speakers combined. Manwë called for a recess, graciously accepted by an audience that had been talked into submission, and gestured for Melkor to join him outside.

"Do you think this is a joke?" he fumed, his voice low and dangerous, cornering his younger brother in a culvert by the door. "You're sitting there like the Child King reborn, and insulting the people you're going to be working with! Living with, even!"

"Insulting?" Melkor scoffed. "This  _is_ a discussion, isn't it? It's not one of your dinner parties, where we all sit and listen to speeches and applaud when they're over! I'm trying to make a difference here!"

"You _are_  making a difference," Manwë replied. "You're making every person in that room hate you." Melkor's mouth closed in a tight line. "This isn't a popularity contest. No-one's giving you points for being the cleverest boy in the room anymore. If you speak out of turn one more time, just once, you'd better have a bloody good reason for it."

Manwë turned and left Melkor alone in the corridor, brooding silently. He had succeeded in raising his brother's ire to breaking point; always fun, but the circumstances had required a little more tact. Snarling like a chastened beast, he returned to the meeting room to find everyone back in their seats and ready to start over.

"Lieutenant Commander Oromë," Manwë addressed the burly man to his left, "what do you have to say to us?"

"Nothing," Oromë replied, to the surprise of no-one. "You all know me, and you all know what I do. On my honour, I'll fulfil all expectations of me and obey all orders. But I do have a question for you, Commander." Oromë turned in his seat, creaking under his weight, to fix Manwë with a stare that would cow a wolverine. "Honoured as I am to serve, I was surprised to find you had folded Recon and Security under the same remit, given that we don't have any Security officers accompanying us. I, for one, would like to know what prompted such a decision."

Manwë cleared his throat. "Of course," he replied, setting aside his tablet. "At this table, I'm as accountable as the rest of you. Call me a cock-eyed optimist-"

"I might," Oromë quipped, sending a wave of discomfort around the table. Manwë paused to regain his train of thought.

"Call me what you will," he said, "but I have complete faith in the competence and loyalty of my officers and their crewmen. I think a full-time security team would cost valuable resources which could be better spent elsewhere, at such a critical stage of development of the colony."

"Yes, I read your report too, Commander," Oromë replied, getting dangerously close to insubordination – though in reality, even Manwë would have balked at shutting the hulk of a man down. "I want you to tell me that the safety of the colony is your prime concern, and how you plan to do that without a security team."

Manwë propped himself up on his elbows and met Oromë's gaze. "This isn't some heathen wilderness we're dropping into," he replied. "This planet has been designed to exacting specifications by the finest minds Ain has ever known – Captain Eru would, I'm sure, go so far as to describe it as a paradise. I'm not sure I entirely agree, but the fact remains – we made this planet. That means we control it. Barriers and deterrents have already been set up to protect the colony from marauding wildlife, every person here has combat, survival and disaster training and, like I said, I trust everyone here implicitly. We will not have enemies on Arda, but should the unthinkable happen…well, I can think of no-one I'd trust with my life more than you, Lieutenant Commander."

Oromë leaned back in his chair slowly, keeping Manwë's gaze. "Very good, Commander," he conceded, and spoke no more. Manwë breathed a silent sigh of relief and checked his tablet to see who was next on the agenda. His heart sunk. "Doctors," Manwë said, forcing himself to look interested, "would you like to begin?"

"Gladly, Commander," Irmo replied, standing as Estë slotted clear crystals into the central console in the middle of the table. "There's no need to go into the affliction from which we all suffer. That last, most tragic victim of the Blight; not content with taking our young and ravaging the Mother Goddess – it stole our very future away from us."

"I think what the Doctor is trying to say," Námo interrupted grumpily, "is that we're all shooting blanks. Continue."

A childish snort drowned out Irmo's embarrassed cough, Manwë cast a warning eye down the table to Malkor, who sat with his face contorted in restrained mirth. Manwë would have wagered that part of Melkor's amusement was because he was thinking of saying it himself.

"Yes," Irmo continued, recovering. "Sterility. It's a problem we've worked on for decades, but with no success. It appears the Blight has re-written our very genetic structure from the ground up; genetic manipulation is one thing, but this…this is the very essence of life itself we're trying to understand. It would take centuries to work out, and, as I'm sure none of you need reminding, we're running out of time. But," he intoned, casting his hand over the central console to bring up a rotating hologram, "more time is exactly what this miracle will give us."

The table leaned forward as one to examine the strange pyramidal structure displayed before them. One section was cut away to reveal chamber upon chamber filled with chaotic columns of glittering light.

"What is it?" Nienna asked.

"It's a suspended animation chamber," Estë explained, pressing a button to begin a pre-loaded sequence which peeled back the pyramid, layer by layer. "The most advanced ever built."

Aulë made a noise of disbelief. "If that scale's right, this thing is a mile high and twice as wide, we'll all be long dead before it's finished!"

"Oh, no," Irmo corrected him with a smile, "it's already built. And it's not a mile high," he said as Aulë's jaw dropped, "it's a mile deep."

"The chamber has been built into the very curst of Arda," Estë explained as the table began to mutter, pressing another button tozoom out and show the chamber's position beneath the surface, "using the Virgin's heart and veins for power."

"The core," Melkor whispered, enraptured. "And seams of copper in the living rock!"

"Ever so," Irmo confirmed. "All we need do is hook our technology up to it; the Virgin Mother will do the rest."

"How will we decide who gets put into statis?" Ulmo asked. "One out, one in?"

"All in," replied Irmo. "Our bodies will be placed in the chamber," he explained, starting another demonstration; a body was laid on a plinth extruding from one of the huge columns and crystals grew over it, covering it completely. "Biomechanical interfaces will keep us unconscious and alive – practically forever. But above…" Irmo chuckled. He'd been waiting for this moment. "Your conscious mind will project itself onto the surface, in whatever form seems best to you." The hologram swooped up from the chamber to the "ground", where a perfect facsimile flashed into being.

"This body will be as real as your very own; the mind makes it so. You will see, hear, smell, eat, laugh and love – but eternally. We will not age, we will not sicken; to solve the problem of our propagation, my friends, we have – literally – all the time in the world."

The crowd took the news of their impending immortality, Manwë thought, rather well. "Thank you, Doctors," he nodded to Irmo and Estë. "Well, follow  _that_ , Commander Aulë."

"I have a question," Melkor interrupted as Aulë opened his mouth to speak, "if I may," he added, looking directly as his brother. "You say this body is as real as our own; can it be hurt, then?"

Irmo coughed. "Well, I would imagine pain responses would remain identical, given the-"

"I didn't ask if you could feel pain," Melkor interrupted him, "I asked if you could be hurt."

"He's got a point," Oromë grunted, "Immortal doesn't mean invincible. I most of all have reason to fear injury on Arda – can it happen?"

"Yes," Estë replied firmly, cutting off Irmo's dithering. "As said before; the mind makes it so. It's never been tested…obviously," she continued, wary of Melkor's beady eye, "but I have to assume that injury caused to the avatar would be as lasting as if it happened on your own body."

"Good to know," Melkor replied unctuously. Silence fell over the group once more.

"Aulë," Manwë addressed the engineer, "if you would?"

Aulë cleared his throat and stood up. "As Chief-oh, excuse me, CO-chief of Engineering on Arda, I propose the following solution to our energy needs…" He fumbled through his pockets for a crystal, which Yavanna fished out for him. Thanking her as he slid it into the console, he resumed his speech.

"This technology was in the experimental phase when we left Ain," he explained as another hologram flickered into life, "but I believe that I have stabilised it." A huge, tapered building, like the lighthouses that dotted the coastlines of Ain in the days when there were still seas, rose from the console. Its top glared with an ethereal light.

"There are two problems facing us which I intend to solve," Aulë announced, hitting his stride. "First, we need power; second, we need light. This complex – these complexes, rather, for there's to be two of them – will see to both. Rods penetrate the crust," he went on, the hologram shearing itself in half to reveal thick metal poles running down the inside of its length, "and conduct geothermal energy at the rate of trillions of units per second. A gravitational well here-" he pointed to the luminescent bulb atop the tower, "-forces this energy into a singularity. And at this point of infinite denseness and infinite energy-" A flash of light exploded atop the hologram. "-a star is born." Gasps ripped around the table. Aulë smiled smugly. Only Melkor remained impassive, absorbing information.

"One in the North," he continued as the hologram showed a representation of Arda with a glowing tower at its Northern pole, "and one in the South." Another glowing tower appeared at the southern pole. "The turn of the planet powers the flow of the mantle, which powers each complex in sequence; as one brightens, the other dims, and vice-versa. Giving us-"

"Sunrise and sunset," Varda sighed, unable to keep a sigh of joy from her words.

"Precisely," Aulë replied. An impromptu round of applause broke out. The engineer looked as though he might faint. "There is one potential drawback, however," he blurted, as if fearful of his own success. "It will require the full weight of the Engineering department, not to mention significant help from Geosat and Environmental," he gestured to Varda and Ulmo.

"I'll make sure we can give you whatever help you need," Varda replied eagerly.

"As will I," Ulmo concurred, "but what does your co-Chief think of this, I wonder; having to relinquish control of his junior officers to you?" All heads turned to Melkor, who remained inscrutable. After some moments of silence, he broke into a smile.

"You set 'em up," Melkor replied, "and I'll knock 'em down. Consider it done."

A good humour swept the room, and Aulë took his seat a little shakily, evidently having expected more of an argument. With no other business to cover, Manwë called the meeting to a close.

Seats were nosily vacated and chatter quickly filled the air. "Good meeting, everyone," Melkor said with apparent sincerity, raising a few eyebrows.

"I liked your surveillance system, Commander," Nessa replied, keeping an eye out to make sure Varda couldn't see her 'fraternising with the enemy', as she had once blurted in her cups after the conclusion of their investigation.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Melkor replied. "I do my best. Oh, and, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Nessa replied, bemused.

Melkor looked askance, embarrassed. "Sorry that my presence cost Tulkas his place here." Nessa's lips parted slowly, uncomprehending. "The Captain thought I was too inexperienced to serve as chief of Engineering," he explained, just loud enough for others to start earwigging, "so he told Commander Manwë to lose me or get me some help. I'm, of course, very grateful to Aulë for his help, but…" He shrugged sadly.

"Commander," Manwë warned his brother.

"Is this true?" Nessa interrupted him. "Did you keep Tulkas here so you could have your brother with us instead?" She asked, growing incandescent with barely-checked anger.

"Lieutenant, I think you're forgetting yourself!" Manwë barked at her, stiffening her back.

"But is it?" Ulmo asked, his black eyes narrowed. "Is this why this mission has no security team, because you hired your brother a babysitter?"

Varda and Yavanna both piped up at once, admonishing Ulmo.

"-completely out of line-"

"-can't say Aulë doesn't have skills to offer, just look-"

A deafening bang caused the whole room to flinch and fall silent. Oromë loomed over the table, his fist planted hard into the wood. "Commander," he asked, his voice a deep rasp, "did you lie on your mission statement to the captain? Did you just lie to this committee?" He asked, his face growing uncomfortable close to Manwë's own.

"That's a very serious accusation, Lieutenant Commander," Manwë said darkly, facing up to the huge man unafraid. "I have never disobeyed an order or lied to a superior officer in my life!"

"What about your comrades? Your friends?" Ulmo pressed him, closing the gap between them. "Would you lie to them?"

A full-blown row erupted, with Yavanna, Aulë and Varda defending Manwë against the accusations of Nessa, Ulmo and Oromë. Nienna tried time and again to appeal for calm, but passions already ran too high for her to be acknowledged. Brother and sister, husband and wife found themselves on opposite sides of the argument as eventually the row itself became the sticking-point.

"Stop this," Námo called out frantically, "stop this! Division is his goal! Strife his meat, distrust his drink!" Vairë fussed and fretted over her distressed husband, holding him tight as his eyes rolled back into his head, his mad, meaningless cries lost in the tumult of voices.

Manwë, the outrage over his decision having long been surpassed by a litany of perceived slights from one officer or another, sank down into this chair, blanched and stunned. Across the table, he watched Melkor rise and depart, a smug grin covering his face, holding his brothers' gaze through the sea of bodies until the gilded doors closed before him, leaving Manwë to his mutiny.


	11. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 11

"This is an outrage!" Ulmo cried, pointing an accusing finger at Manwë. "You've endangered thousands of lives just so you can get your incompetent brother a post he doesn't deserve!"

"How dare you speak of my brother that way?" Manwë replied, bristling. "I'd have to be a fool to see you dislike him, Ulmo, but I will not hear you slander him by calling him incompetent!"

"Not incompetent, then," Oromë said, stepping between the feuding pair and staring Manwë down. "Self-obsessed, cruel, petty and dangerous, but not incompetent, at least!"

Manwë thrust his face into Oromë's until their noses touched. "I dare you," he hissed. "Talk to your superior officer like that, talk to  _me_  like that, one more time. I dare you!"

"MANWË!"

The volume of the Captain's shout shocked all back to reality. Eru stood behind his desk, red-faced and thunder-eyed. His broad old shoulders heaved with deep breaths. "You will stand down!"

Manwë cast his gaze to the floor, ashamed. He slowly turned from Oromë to face the captain, with Ulmo and Oromë following suit in silence. It hung over the room like a guillotine blade, a death-stroke ready to drop. Arda floated serenely beyond them out of the window behind the Captain, fluffy white clouds racing each other around the stratosphere.

"Are you really the best Ain has to offer?" Eru asked, mockingly. "I despair. You stand before your Captain and fight like boys, full of piss and vinegar! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, all of you!" His voice resounded in the small room and, Manwë was sure, would be just about audible through the bridge. He wasn't looking forward to leaving.

"Now, I know this is an awkward situation," Eru continued, leaning forward, "but final responsibility regarding senior officers rests with Commander Manwë."

"Not if you intervene in the name of the security of the race, Sir," Ulmo retorted, "as laid down in Article 6, Chapter-"

"Don't you quote regulations at  _me_ , boy!" Eru barked. "You don't think I know each and every one backwards?"

"I was only suggesting, Sir," Ulmo back-tracked, "that it may not be in our best interests to-"

"Be silent, Commander!" Eru ordered him. Ulmo's lips fastened into a tight line, hands curled into fists, trembling. "The fact is I happen to agree with Commander Manwë. Security is not a high priority for the very reasons he gives in his report – we're the only sentient creatures within a billion light-years and we control the weather! What are you worried about, the Marsh Men?"

Oromë growled deeply, rumbling in the chests of all around. Belittling a soldier's instinct with references to childhood make-believe monsters was never a good idea. "I've been a warrior all my life, Captain," he said quietly, eyes fixe d forward. "If I could distil everything I've learned into one sentence, it would be:  _Don't trust anything._ "

"And that includes plantlife, does it?" Manwë quipped.

"Shut up!" Eru shouted at him, pointing a vicious finger. "Lieutenant Commander, I understand your misgivings – really, I do – but I have to confess, with such an experienced and competent professional as yourself already part of the team-" Oromë huffed. Manwë had mollified him earlier with the same flattery; it would not work again. "-I see no need for any extra security precautions when Engineering is a department which could desperately do with another wise head, with all the work they'll be doing down there."

"With all due respect, Sir," Ulmo interjected, braving a wary eye from the Captain, "I don't believe Commander Melkor is necessarily a wise head. On multiple occasions he's demonstrated a wilful lack of regard to ship regulations which could have potentially endangered the entire mission-"

"Which is why he's not going to be alone," Eru replied. "Lieutenant – excuse me,  _Commander_  Aulë is under specific instruction to keep him on a short leash until he can learn some humility."

Ulmo paused, temporarily blindsided by the revelation of Aulë's apparent promotion and the Captain's complicity in controlling Melkor. Manwë's eyes bulged in surprise, for the same reason. "-a-and I have reason to believe," Ulmo continued, faltering, "that he issued a field commission to his romantic partner, Lieutenant Enwe, despite her not having the necessary qualifications or experience in Engineering to warrant one. I don't believe so, anyway," he finished dumbly.

Eru mulled over this information quietly. "Did he now?" He replied. "I was unaware the pair of them were lovers. We have regulations against that kind of thing."

"Since when did Commander Melkor care about those, Sir?" Oromë asked, eyes still snapped forward in a long-practised pose.

Eru sighed deeply, sounding more tired, more old, than he ever had. "Quite," he replied, turning away to gaze from the window. "Quite." Silence fell upon them once more, heavy and leaden and awkward. The three, still quietly furious despite their outward calmness, daren't speak up or even look at each other.

"I'll look into the Enwe matter," Eru said at length, hands held behind his back as he planet-gazed casually. "As for everything else; you will defer to Commander Manwë on this point. That's an order. And we will forget this ever happened. Now get out, all of you," he said quietly, cutting Manwë to the bone with his tone of voice. He knew it well from his childhood; the one his father had used so very often.  _I'm not angry,_  he would invariably say,  _I'm just very disappointed._

Ulmo gave an uncomfortable cough, turned on his heels and departed, followed soon after by Oromë's slow, plodding steps. The deathly silence of the bridge returned to loud chatter the moment the hulking man had stepped through the door. Manwë lingered a second or two after the door closed.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, before turning for the door.

"Manwë," Eru called after him softly. He turned back to face the Captain. "Keep an eye on him," he said.

Manwë nodded, under no illusions over to whom the captain was referring "I will, Sir."

"No, I mean it," Eru replied, his voice strained and cracking. "You keep a  _damn_  close eye on him," he reiterated, darkly. "I've already lost one planet too many." He turned back to Arda and sighed, watching as his breath crackled against the force field. Manwë swallowed hard and exited without another word.

From every angle, he could feel eyes burning into him, glancing furtively from corners or flickering up from tablets as he stalked the corridors, ignoring them all in his quiet rage. The wound Melkor had inflicted on him cut deep, and seemed to bore deeper and deeper into him the longer he thought about it. A senseless act of petty recrimination for a scolding had cost him the trust of a good officer, and quite possibly the friendship of a good man.

A young ensign went flying as Manwë rounded a corner and barged straight into him, utterly unheeding. Protests and calls rose up, but they washed over him as if he had been deafened. Only one thing mattered – he needed to find his brother, and have a very, very serious talk with him.

* * *

Nienna sat on her bed, feet curled beneath her in her usual pose, staring at the wall and the projection of rain falling over the steamy groves of her home country before the Blight had come. She missed the rain, and the colour green. Both were ubiquitous in her childhood; a lush, verdant paradise baked dry by the sun in the dog days and quenched by downpours so violent her people had long thought it was the sweat of the Sun itself, exhausted from its effort. Come spring, after the rain but before the sun, there were blissful months of running through fragrant forests and climbing up trees that seemed as old as the world itself, surrounded everywhere by flowers and insects of turquoise, mauve and amber, but always that iridescent green so beloved of Ain. An eight-winged insect flew across the wall, flashing coruscating scales, momentarily transporting Nienna back home.

"I wish I could have shown you Estëhan in its glory days," she muttered. "The way the sun in spring seemed to shine straight through the leaves of the water-bearer plants that covered every wall and building, casting everything in the same green glow…as though we were all truly children of nature. No races, no sects…just the same green on all of us."

The recording skipped. The illusion was broken. Nienna swallowed sadly and averted her eyes, not content to feast on the memories of a dead planet anymore. "That was so horrible," she said, "what happened in there today." She pulled her knees under her chin and held herself tight. "You don't know what it's like," she said, sniffling, "being Touched. I can hear it all the time – the internal monologue, the struggle. You wouldn't believe the amount of energy some people have to expend – the arguments they have to have in their head – just to be normal. It's…it's maddening!" She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Thirteen people all shouting at once, and inside so angry, so hurt, so afraid…I've never been in a room so full of anger before, and I've been a therapist for twenty years!" A hand reached out to stroke her shoulder gently as she began to rock.

"Our emotions will kill us, in the end," she muttered. "They're the most powerful force in the universe. Each of us, no matter how hard we try to suppress it, feels so very, very keenly that you wouldn't believe it – even if they don't realise it. All of them in there – inside, they were screaming. Screaming the most violent, horrible things, inside their head – I don't think they were even aware of most of them. Underneath all the shouting and arguing, no matter how eloquent or forceful it is, beneath it all is an animal." She sniffed again, loudly. "Greedy, selfish, and blind."

Soft lips brushed at the nape of Nienna's neck, arms wrapping around her from behind. A breath against her skin whispered  _I'm so sorry_. She pulled away, forcing apart the slender fingers laced across her midriff.

"I know you love him," she said into emptiness, staring out of the window as if vainly looking back home. A different silence filled the room; cold and awkward. "Please don't say you don't," she whispered, her face wrinkling with imminent tears. "I mean it – I  _know._  I can hear it. I'm like a…like a fresh burn that can feel a breeze like it was sandpaper, I can feel and hear everything, and…" She buried her face in her knees to sob. "I don't want you to lie to me."

Nessa slid across the bed to sit next to Nienna, wrapping her arm around her waist as she heaved silently. "I don-" she tried to say. "I-" Words failed her again. Anger rose up in her, sending her freckled cheeks bright pink. Anger at Nienna, for knowing her better than she did; anger at Manwë, for taking Tulkas from her, quite possibly forever; anger at Melkor, for cutting her heart out in public so blithely. Anger at herself for having taken so long to realise. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, quite unnoticed, as she buried her face into the crook of Nienna's neck.

"I don't know what to do", she whined. "Two weeks and I'm never going to see him again."

Nienna snorted loudly, her face a mess of tears. "You can still resign," she said, searching through the pockets of her dressing-gown for a handkerchief, "if you want. If you'd rather be…with him," she finished glumly.

Nessa sunk down to lay her head on Nienna's lap, who stroked her lover's hair tenderly as she cried silently. "I don't know what I want," she croaked, as memories of long-gone Estëhan bathed them both in artificial green.

* * *

Melkor paced the length of his office, lost in thought. The fallout from the disastrous ending to Arda Mission's first confab were still being felt days later. The officers had split into two informal factions; one defending Manwë's actions as being – and Melkor couldn't help a wry smile when he thought of it – in the best interests of the Colony, and the other claiming he was putting them all in danger for the sake of nepotism. His brother had tried to speak to him immediately after the meeting, but Melkor had swiftly laid low and Manwë had been practically frog-marched to the Captain's office by Oromë. Cocooned in his office, his communicator permanently set to Busy, he was divorced from the world; all he had to do was wait.

"Permission to speak,  _Sir_ ," Enwe, sitting on the desk, asked sarcastically. Melkor stopped his pacing and turned to face her.

"Go on."

"Will you please sit down?" Melkor scowled and carried on pacing. Enwe rolled her eyes. "Do you really think Commander Manwë is going to batter down the door and drag you out?" Melkor looked sheepishly at her.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he mumbled, eyes darting to the slit in the door.

"Forget it. From what I've heard, he's in enough trouble anyway," she replied, piquing Melkor's interest. "Ulmo's and Oromë are considering formally contesting Manwë's suitability for the post of Commander of Arda."

"What? How do you know this?" Melkor asked. Enwe smiled, inspecting her nails.

"I've worked in a lot of different departments," she said with a smirk, "spun a few webs. People will trust you with anything if they think you're stupid," she muttered, long lashes fluttering.

Melkor's brain went into overdrive. What would this mean for his position on Arda? Could Manwë survive such a concerted political attack? If he couldn't, the first thing the new Commander would do would be to review Melkor's position as a senior officer, with a bleak outcome highly likely. He turned and paced again.

"Oh, calm down!" Enwe said, exasperated, throwing herself into Melkor's chair and slinging her legs onto the desk. "You don't need to be planning the next step in the Grand Plan already. Time is on your side. Let them fight it out while they still think you're just an egomaniac."

Melkor froze, caught somewhere between insulted and amazed. "What are you talking about?" He said, feigning innocence. Enwe scoffed.

"Don't even  _try_ to pretend with me," she said. "They may not see it, but I do. You want it. You want Arda," she said triumphantly, smiling as Melkor's chest swelled at being found out. "Relax," she sighed, "I won't tell. I'd like to see that prick brought down a peg or two myself."

"That's not  _all_ it is," Melkor retorted. "Manwë and Eru want to make a paradise where we can all die out in banal safety, like some cosmic retirement home. I want us to live, don't you see!" He hissed, looming over the desk as much as his slight frame would allow. "I want an Ain race fire-forged by the heat of tribulation, not generations of spoiled princelings!"

"You can have it," Enwe reassured him, leaning forward to being her face close to his, "if you are bold. You've been clever so far, but now you must be decisive. The Valar are fighting amongst themselves and the Maiar look up to you more than any of their other officers.

"What are you suggesting?" Melkor whispered dangerously, his breath dancing on Enwe's lips, sending her pulse racing.

"A coup," she breathed, "when they're least expecting it. The crewmen will follow you – they know you represent order and wisdom, more than any… _committee_  ever could. The old Kings took their prizes at the tip of a sword – why not you?"

Melkor smiled, impressed. "When did you become such a political animal?" He whispered as Enwe's fingers grace his chest.

"I have a wide range of interests," she whispered back, unbuttoning the neck of his jumpsuit. "I'm not just a pretty face."

Melkor's face split into a cruel grin as he grabbed Enwe's wrists tightly and pulled her out of her chair, making her squeal in surprise. "No, you're not," he growled, kissing her passionately. At that moment, predictably, the bell at the door sounded. Melkor's smile dropped into a rictus of terror.

"Don't," Enwe whispered desperately, "Ignore it. Please," she moaned as she kissed his stony face. He glanced down to the monitor beneath them and sighed in annoyance, letting her wrists go with some reluctance.

"Come!" he called. Enwe crossed her arms petulantly as Mairon entered.

"Well, as if the mood wasn't ruined enough," she mumbled under her breath, eyeing the young lieutenant darkly, who returned the favour.

"Stand down, Lieutenant," Melkor addressed Enwe, "he's one of us." Mairon bowed deeply.

"There are others?" Enwe asked. "You told  _him_  before me?" she added with distaste.

"You're not the only one who agrees with Lord Melkor's plans," Mairon countered her. Melkor smirked smugly, enjoying being referred to by his aristocratic title; after all, since Manwë had publicly forsworn their father's estate, was it not his by right?

"I think Mairon had something to say before you interrupted him, Enwe," Melkor said, eyeing the young man proudly.

"Thank you, Sir," he replied as Enwe huffed. "I have a potential ally for our cause, Sir. An Ensign in Geosat. I can vouch for him."

"Does the Child King have a name?" Enwe asked, cocking her head at Mairon.

"I'd rather not say here," Mairon replied, not taking his eyes from Melkor, "one can't be too careful until one is sure. But there's fervour in this one's eyes, Sir, and fire." he said, his mouth curling into a prideful smile.

"You told him nothing of our designs?" Melkor pressed him.

"No, Sir, he suspects nothing. But he is outspoken in his wish for a more potent and practical leader; your name is received with high favour. His commanding officer spoke of him as the brightest light Geosat has to offer."

Melkor turned to pace his office again. "Keep an eye on him," he instructed Mairon, "a few more officers on my side will make this easier."

"He's an Ensign," Enwe scoffed, "Barely an officer. Barely out of short trousers, even!"

"Perhaps his Lordship is looking to foster a new generation in his methods," Mairon retorted, colour beginning to rise in his cheeks.

"Oh, I think 'his Lordship' is more than capable of defending his decision," Enwe said, closing the distance between them. She barely reached Mairon's throat, but stared up at him with implacable hatred. The two of them had been at loggerheads since they had met; Mairon, fond as he was of Aulë, had refused at first to work with a woman he considered an underqualified usurper. Only some shuttle diplomacy by his beloved Commander had convinced him to work with Enwe; even so, the pair vehemently and palpably disliked each other.

Melkor calmly slid an arm between the pair. "Is that all, Lieutenant?" he asked Mairon, his voice low and threatening.

"Yes, Sir," Mairon replied, "sorry, Sir. Permission to be excused."

"Granted."

Mairon left the office haughtily, flicking his black curls like an exclamation point. Enwe vocalised her displeasure once the door shut. "Of all the jumped-up, sycophantic little prigs, you pick that frui-"

Melkor's arm shot out and grabbed Enwe by the throat, slamming her against the wall. Her eyes bulged as his long, strong fingers squeezed on her windpipe, her legs kicking out futilely.

"You seem to be forgetting a few things lately, Lieutenant," he growled, his voice a quiet rasp, "not least of all exactly who is in charge here. I will not tolerate you speaking on my behalf, or making decisions for me. I know what I'm doing. Are you suggesting I don't?"

Enwe gasped for air, her hands clutching to Melkor's wrist to support herself. She shook her head as much as his grasp would allow.

"This is  _my_  destiny," he hissed into her ear, flecking her cheek with spittle, "no-one else's. You don't seem to appreciate just how fortunate you are to be a part of it – at my side, no less! And you insult me in this way? How dare you?" His voice began to break into a tremulous whine, like a child not understanding why his pet wouldn't wake; betrayed, confused, and hurt.

"I'm sorry," Enwe gasped, purple veins beginning to burst in her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Melkor-" she croaked before gasping for breath again. Tears began to prick at the corners of her eyes as her heels scraped the wall. Without warning Melkor let her fall, sending her into a pile on the cold metal floor. Melkor watched as she shuddered and coughed, seething.

"You are dismissed, Lieutenant," he hissed, "and don't come back until you're ready to apologise." He stepped over her prostrate body on his way to his chair, and so absorbed himself in his work he barely even registered his lover crawling out of the door.


	12. Part 1: Anacrusis - Chapter 12

A sense of foreboding pervaded every part of the Iluvátar, clinging to every surface and seeping through locked doors. The Great Leap, as Eru so regularly referred to it in his ship bulletins, was upon them: the day when their chosen men and women would fall from ship to surface and begin the permanent Ain colonisation of the virgin Arda.

Despite all the positivity in which the event was being drenched, not one crew member could shake the feeling of dread; it was an unprecedented moment in Ain history, and the realisation that they would never see these brave men and women again was beginning to settle. The hand of destiny weighed heaviest of all upon the officers leading the charge, who would be the first to drop to the planet in specially-made escape capsules; the idea to have the nascent transportation technology safe enough for living tissue by the time of departure had been irrevocably derailed by the incident with the satellite, and so "Plan B" was hastily prepared.

They gathered in a sterile, white-walled, circular isolation room, stripped down to their ship-issue long-johns as their dropsuits were prepared. Teams of technicians, robed in white biomechanical suits, surrounded each officer, preparing them for the short but intense journey; attaching electrodes and pads to temples and pulses, clipping and filing nails lest they tear the intricate electro-fabric lining the capsules, and finally kitting them out piece-by-piece in the sturdy silver mesh that made up the dropsuits.

"Look on the bright side," Ulmo muttered to Nessa, beside him, "I doubt they'd have enough of this stuff to cover most of Tulkas' arse," he quipped as the long roll of electronic fabric was wrapped around his legs.

"They found enough to fit Oromë," Nessa replied, dully. She winced as a technician rifled through her short ginger hair with a fine-tooth comb, looking for lice. "I'm sure they could have managed."

"It was only a joke, sweetheart," Ulmo said.

"There's nothing to joke about," Nessa replied shortly. Her legs covered in the sticky silver mesh, another technician lifted her feet one at a time to ease them into the heavy boots which would keep her locked into place in the capsule. Melkor, directly opposite her in the round, received the full brunt of her hateful stare. Far from the impressive, if worrying, intellect she'd been so grudgingly impressed with until so recently, he now represented everything she had lost – instead of her Tulkas, she now had this petty creep for eternity. Melkor, clocking Nessa's gaze, winked. The sound of disgust she made pleased him greatly.

The black cloud hovering over Arda Team had spread through the ship in the two weeks leading up to their departure. Ulmo's crew in Hydrography had been quick to back their charming commander, likewise Oromë's scouts. Dissention and dislike fomented amongst the crewmen as they mingled with friends and family, passing on bad feeling from one department to another. Engineering had remained steadfastly opposed to such talk, in favour of their two most gifted officers, and Low Orbit Tech and Geosat stood in solidarity with them. As the teams began their final preparations for descent, petty rivalries had surfaced – the traditional pranks at the expense of rival departments had increased in frequency and intensity, and were verging on the vindictive.

As Irmo and Estë argued with the technicians over the environmental viability of introducing the fabric of their dropsuits into a pristine biosphere, and Aulë and Yavanna stood in practised silence, trying not to let the emotion of the moment overwhelm them, Melkor stood legs and arms akimbo, looking down on the technicians kitting him out like an emperor surveying kowtowing subjects. The thought made him smirk.

"Look at him," Varda muttered to her husband as a heavy backpack, part life-support, part survival pack, was strapped to her shoulders, "he looks like he's posing for a statue."

Manwë grunted his response. The brothers were still at loggerheads; Melkor had completed his bid to go unseen by the rest of the crew until the day of the drop, despite some truly desperate measures by his brother to flush him out. As such, there had been no discourse between them since the day Melkor had successfully turned half of Manwë's officers against him, and the Arda Commander still felt wounded.

"Nearly done, Commander," a masked technician informed him, his voice buzzing out through tinny speakers on his throat. A large collar was attached to his shoulders, clipped into place and activated. Lights around the inside rim turned on and a low hum filled his ears, followed by the subsequent harmony of a dozen more hums.

"Thank you," Manwë said as the technicians retreated. "Could we have some time alone, if you don't mind?" The technicians, unsure, stared from one to the other through their horizontal eye-slit. "Please," Manwë repeated, with just enough force to convince the technicians that complying was a very good idea. The shuffling of booted feet echoed around the circular room as the officers silently watched the technicians make their exit. With the piercing hiss of the hermetic door closing, Manwë cleared his throat.

"Right," he began, striding out to the centre of the room. "I'm not going to go into details about what's been happening for the last couple of weeks; we all know. And I'm not going to go around pointing fingers, or blaming any of you." Nessa scoffed and Oromë's chest swelled. "Because this is my fault," he continued a touch unexpectedly. A blink of surprise seemed to sweep the gathering like a wave. "I was not completely honest with you, I accept that. You're my crew," he said, beginning to pace around the room, looking each officer in the eye, "and my crew deserves better than that. You're my friends," he added, stopping in front of Ulmo, "and friends deserve better than that." Ulmo swallowed hard as Manwë resumed his walk. "From this point onwards, you will get nothing but complete honesty from me. I don't like the way you're running things? I'll tell you. I make a decision you don't like? I'll tell you why. Because what we're doing here, this…this is more important than anything any of us could possibly imagine. We are the vanguard of a species; we're the comeback tour. I fucked up," he blurted, holding his hands up. "Guilty. But please…remember what we're doing this for. Remember  _who_ we're doing this for. I'm doing this for all of you, and every person on this crew, and for-"

He stopped and cleared his throat.

"-and for my father. Meridan. We lost him, but…had he lived, I have no doubt that he would have chosen to be part of this crew." Melkor's cocky smirk dropped away, shocked back to ground at the sound of his father's name. He couldn't remember Manwë even mentioning him since he'd died. "I'm doing this because I can, and because I have to. Because we're all there is, now."

Nessa watched with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She still burned with indignation at being parted from Tulkas, and Manwë bore at least some of that ire, but something in her was conflicted; his sorrow seemed so genuine, his apology so heartfelt. She couldn't entirely banish her bad opinion towards him, but his penitence quelled at least some of her anger.

Silence hung over the group like a shroud. None had expected a pep talk, but the frankness of Manwë's speech had caught them well and truly off-guard. He approached Irmo and Estë.

"Doctors, who are you doing this for?" He asked . Irmo's mouth opened and closed dumbly.

"My brothers," Estë replied. "They were only children."

"My sister," Irmo managed to finally blurt.

"My parents," Vairë piped up, clutching Námo's hand.

"Her parents," Námo reiterated, his gravelly voice unusually soft.

"Our son," Aulë thundered, his deep voice breaking as Yavanna hid her face in her hands, her slight shoulders trembling. It was as if a great wall of emotion had been broken down, with each officer taking turns to remember their lost loved ones as they prepared to start anew. Manwë came back to Ulmo.

"Who are you doing this for, Ulmo?" he asked softly. Ulmo's dark eyes met Manwë's and locked.

"You," he replied, putting a hand on his old friend's shoulder. "My Captain."

A mixture of sobs and laughs broke around the room, dispelling the bad feeling that had pervaded the group for so long. "Come on, bring it in," Manwë shouted as the group linked arms and joined heads in a ritualistic bond, laughing and chattering all the while. All except Melkor, who stood rooted to the spot, consumed with anger. Weeks, months of planning to sow discontent with Manwë's rule, ruined. The circle broke, unheeding of Melkor's absence from it, and made its way from the isolation room and into the departure bay.

The mood that gripped the departure bay was bizarre; at once both celebratory and funereal, with pomp and pageantry covering a deep and palpable sadness. Officers stood to attention in full dress uniform with their short, colour-coded capes arcing from one side of the long bay to the other like a rainbow, backed by the massed flags of the Hundred Nations, the league which had together built the Iluvátar. Against the drab, grey interior, so common of every part of the ship, it was an explosion of colour that almost blinded the Arda Team as they made their entrance to rapturous applause. Taking their places before the one-man capsules that would take them down to the surface, they stood and awaited the Captain's attention.

Amid much fuss, Captain Eru mounted the hastily-constructed podium in the centre of the line of officers while grey-smocked technicians tinkered with cables beneath him. His microphone burst into life with a deafening static whine as he muttered incomprehensibly.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he began, almost drowned out by a hundred pairs of feet instinctively shuffling to attention, "at ease." Silence fell over the group once more, a communal breath held in anticipation. Eru sighed loudly.

"On occasions such as this," he began, "what words are sufficient? Indeed,  _are_ they sufficient? How can we rightfully praise the heroism of these brave men and women who will soon make up the first ever extra-planetary Ain colony?" He paused, glancing down to his feet. "I wrestled with this problem for countless hours leading up to today. At one point, I even considered not making this speech, so overawed was I at the significance of the moment. But, instead, I decided that a moment as iconic as this should – nay, must – be marked with a few, brief words."

 _Liar,_  Ulmo muttered under his breath. A subtle dig in the ribs from Manwë's elbow silenced him.

Eyes began to gloss over within seconds of Eru launching into his speech proper. It was everything they had come to expect from him when he got going on his favourite topic – overblown, purple and bordering on pompous. References to the "glorious" past of Ain's antiquity, her myths and legends, couldn't come thick and fast enough.

Nessa felt her head swimming. Eru's bombastic delivery wasn't enough to save her from slipping into a semi-catatonic state, still quietly furious and her mind still fixated on the events of the previous night.

_"I saved this for a special occasion," Tulkas explained, opening a huge, battered sea-chest at the foot of his bed. "Dad used to distil his own. We never did lack for paint stripper," he mumbled as he pulled out a smoke-darkened bottle, sealed with cork and wax. "He left it to me. To my mind, it's the last bottle of moonshine left in the universe."_

_Nessa let out a breath. She hadn't seen a bottle sealed old-style since she was a child. "Are you sure? That's got to be at least – must be worth thousands!"_

_Tulkas unceremoniously bit through the wax and extracted the cork with his teeth, spitting it out onto the table that separated them. "Money's not much use now, is it?" he grunted as he sloshed measures of the incalculably precious drink into finger-stained tumblers. Nessa stifled a cough. It smelled not just flammable, but as though it might spontaneously explode._

_"To Arda," Tulkas toasted, without enthusiasm. They clinked glasses awkwardly and downed their drinks. After the screaming had subsided, they pulled themselves up from the floor and into their seats, slamming their glasses down together – a long-practiced ritual, soon to be performed for the last time._

_"Gods and sea-serpents," Nessa swore, her throat ripped raw. "What did your dad put in that stuff, acid?"_

_"Remember that fallout skip that got nicked from the Calan docks back in point-four-four-two?" Tulkas replied easing the cork back into the bottle. Nessa stared him down._

_"Bollocks," she muttered, shaking her head to dispel the aura encroaching on her vision._

_"It's either that or the shed just decided to glow in the dark for the shits of it," Tulkas shot back. Nessa let out a snort._

_"Nah, you're making that up," she said, tapping the bottle with her glass. Tulkas duly obliged and reloaded them both._

_"On my honour," he said as he carefully righted the bottle, chasing an errant droplet down its length with the rim of his glass._

_"Is that what they're calling it now?" Nessa said as she took a sip, wincing like she'd been punched._

_"Not like you'd know," Tulkas retorted. "I hear Cook wanted to store his unperishables in your drawers, said it was the driest place on the ship." He took a gulp of his own and shuddered quietly._

_"Oh, fuck off," Nessa coughed. "Closest you've had lately was that time the doctor thought you had parasites."_

_"It was an intimate and thorough procedure," Tulkas mumbled as Nessa began to laugh, "carried out with the utmost professionalism."_

_"Sounds familiar," she quipped through guffaws, tapping the bottle again._

_"I'd give it a bit," Tulkas replied, "let the gallstones dissolve first." Their mutual laughter lapsed into an awkward silence. The quiet was overwhelming, like the break in conversation at a funeral, when everyone remembers why they're there._

_"Ten years," Tulkas sighed, smiling sadly. Nessa's lips formed a smile they didn't understand._

_"Been a long time," she concurred." You didn't even have a beard."_

_"You looked…normal," he blurted, his mighty shoulders rising with mirth. Nessa absent-mindedly stroked the back of her head, long since shorn short._

_"You said long hair made me look like a little girl," she replied._

_"It did," Tulkas insisted, missing the point entirely. He let out a long, loud groan, leaning dangerously far back in his chair as he ran rough hands over his bald head. "What do I do now, eh?" he asked. Nessa's heart leapt into her throat. "Who else have I got to drink this piss with?" He laughed, shaking the bottle, which Nessa swore started to fizz._

_"There's some proper nutters down in Engineering," Nessa replied, her mind only half-on the conversation Tulkas thought they were having. "I hear they like sticking their head inside the methanol drums to get loaded off the fumes."_

_"Amateurs," Tulkas grumbled, offering the bottle to Nessa, who nodded. "I was doing that by the age of twelve. Growing up in the docks, you learn to find ways to keep your mind off of existing." He refilled both glasses, but neither touched their drink. "That's all it's been, really," he said, pondering the foul concoction in his glass. "Keeping my mind off existing." The silence became even more leaden. "I don't think I've ever thanked you properly," he said, taking a swift, painful sip._

_"What for?" Nessa asked, matching him._

_"When…when Sand died," he mumbled, "you, and Aulë and Yavanna…you was there for me. And when…" he stopped short. A lump formed in Nessa's throat. "When I lost the kids…I still don't know how you got that gun away from me."_

_"Because you were pissed as a fart," Nessa replied, an awkward laugh blinking back tears. Tulkas nodded slowly._

_"Thank the Gods, eh?" he said, raising his glass. "If it weren't for this stuff…and you," he smiled, "I wouldn't be here…here to watch you do something spectacular. Now stop crying and drink, woman," he said, banging the table. Nessa wiped her eyes and raised her glass._

_"Always our problem-"_

_"-And always the answer," they chimed together, their clinking glasses sending corrosive liquid everywhere._

It was a cruel joke. It had to be. From the corner of her eye, she could see Tulkas, his beard impeccably brushed and uniform in pristine condition , standing in line with the other officers. What had stopped her last night? Even with half a pint of gut-rot you could have used to clean an engine in her belly, the fear had won. The fear of feeling even worse than she did now, if she told him how she felt - only to leave him again, and forever. And what should poor Tulkas feel? A man past his prime, still mourning the loss of his family, being shown a glimpse of love again only to have it snatched away? She couldn't do it. But now, seeing him so close to her – she fought back a mad impulse to break ranks and run to him. Her choice was made. She stared dead ahead, and let the Captain's speech bore her into apathy.

Melkor, however, was already there. From the moment they'd left the isolation room, he had been mentally absent – caught up in his own plots and plans, formulating new designs to account for this sudden upset. Memories surfaced, unbidden, of his meeting with his lieutenants last night – his  _true_  confidants, not the striplings from Engineering. His words now sounded hopelessly overconfident.

_"Friends," Melkor greeted the guests crowding his office, two dozen jostling for space amongst the servers and screens he had had installed in the last few days before departure to organise his plans to the minutest detail. "Welcome. I apologise for it taking so long to get us all in the same room, but, as I'm sure you can appreciate...it's dangerous to be right when one's superiors are wrong." A ripple of mirth passed across the crowd; mostly young and male, upstart crewmen and minor officers from across the ship._

_"It's taken pulling a few more strings than I would have liked, but I'm happy to say that all of you are coming to Arda." A whoop of joy from the rear elicited more laughter and some admonishing grumbles. "Make no mistake…for what we plan to do, we risk the severest punishment possible. But, having met with each of you personally, I don't doubt the mettle of any man – or woman – here," he winked to Enwe. She glowered, a false smile flashing across her face. Mairon, standing behind Melkor – ostensibly as a projection of a more physical kind of power – frowned in her direction. "But let it be said here: do you follow me?" Melkor asked, standing imperiously before them._

_"Yes, Lord Melkor!" came the cry from the crowd, almost as one. Melkor smirked, satisfied._

_"Then let this be my first direct order to you; do nothing." Murmurs of confusion suffused the ranks. "You may have heard rumours that the Senior officers of Arda Team are, to coin a phrase, at each other's throats," Melkor explained. "Well, as you know, I **hate** to brag…" A roar of laughter rose up, and was silent within seconds of Melkor's glare hitting the crowd. "As I was saying…it's true. Opinion on Manwë's fitness to lead Arda is divided, and certain senior officers may end up siding with us. Our friend… **Commander** Aulë, of course, owes nearly everything he has to me," he said bitterly, "And Commander Ulmo is deeply disappointed with his erstwhile friend. Lieutenant Commander Oromë, however, I feel requires only minimal effort to be…convinced of our position. He and I seem to have an…understanding?" Melkor let out a strange, unnatural laugh. The crowd shuffled uneasily, as did Mairon and Enwe; even they had never seen him in such high spirits. "And so, I don't think we need to press ahead too quickly. Let them fester, I say," he hissed, drawing close to his audience, his scrawny limbs taut and tense. "Let them turn on one another. Immortality awaits us! We can wait!" Cheers greeted his statement, and chants were quickly silenced by Mairon's imperious voice._

_"Silence, fools! Do you want to alert all and sundry to our intentions?" He bellowed, his face flushed with anger. Melkor coughed awkwardly and reached a hand up to pat Mairon's shoulder._

_"Thanks for that," he muttered. Mairon regarded his master with disbelieving eyes before standing to attention. Melkor flashed a smile to the crowd, which resumed its laughter and cheer. "But shut up." The mood fell flat once more, with more than one attendant realising their would-be leader might not be as stable and logical as he had convinced them._

_"Just remember what I say now," he began again, "and pass the message on to those beneath you: Do. Nothing. Wait for my signal. Time is on our side, and I won't have all I've planned for go arse-over-tit because some trigger-happy idiot can't wait for an order, is that clear?" Enwe glanced around at the crowd, which was rapidly growing uneasy. He had reeled them in with pleasantry and made them like him; now he was showing there were limits to his good favour. It worked exceedingly well for him, she realised with a sickly feeling._

_"Yes, Sir," came the mumbles in dribs and drabs. Melkor nodded slowly._

_"Good…good. You're all dismissed. Go and get some rest - it's a long trip tomorrow." The meeting parted with one last laugh, and by and by only the three core members of the conspiracy were left in Melkor's office._

_"Permission to be excused also, Commander," Mairon asked with a bow. Enwe almost scoffed in disgust, but the wall Melkor had held her against the last time she'd expressed disgust at his new favourite was worryingly close._

_"Granted," Melkor said, making his way back to his desk as Mairon left, practically kowtowing on his way out._

_"What about me? Do you have any further use for me?" Enwe asked once they were alone. "At all?"_

_Melkor looked up from his screen slowly. The hairs on the back of Enwe's neck stood up as he held her in his icy gaze. "Of course," he said, softly. "I'm sure I will have great need of you before this is all over. But please – I am **very** busy."_

_Enwe breathed in so deeply she felt she might burst. "I see," she whispered, turning on her heels and leaving, wishing doors could still be slammed. Her march away from the office was cut short by Mairon blocking the narrow corridor back to the engineering deck._

_"He told me he had to discipline you the other day," he said silkily, before Enwe could protest. "I'm glad he did before I did. I doubt I'd have been as gentle."_

_Enwe's cheeks flushed red. "Yes," she spat, "I'm sure you'd have loved it, you pathetic little pervert."_

_Mairon advanced on her, his height over her almost comical. "Have you learned nothing about watching your tongue?" he growled, his hair – now oil-black – hanging in front of his face like a jungle beast._

_"Go on," Enwe dared him quietly. "Try something. You'll be in the brig quicker than you can say 'sycophant'. You're even trying to look like him now," she scoffed, nodding to Mairon's dyed locks. The large man's eyes blazed furiously._

_"I hope you understand," he said, "that under Lord Melkor's rule women who talk back won't get away with a little slapping about. And I look forward to it."_

_"I bet you do," Enwe replied, smoothly. "But I would love – LOVE to see you try. I eat men like you for breakfast," she whispered, their faces just inches apart. Moments of tense silence passed between them before Mairon withdrew, slinking backwards._

_"I sincerely hope this recent disagreeableness of yours has a…more mundane explanation," he said drolly, eyeing her up and down. "It would be a shame if your conduct forced Lord Melkor to exclude you from further participation in our enterprise." With a sickly smile, he disappeared into the steam that pervaded every part of Engineering._

"…and once more – excelsior to you all!"

"Excelsior!" Came the cry of the massed officers, almost deafening in the confined space. With a salute to the captain, the fourteen senior officers of Arda Team boarded their capsules and strapped themselves in. With the sealing of the doors, the Valar of Arda were forever separated from their friends and colleagues, before dropping through space and down towards destiny.

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**


	13. Part 2: Fugue - Chapter 13

 

**Part 2 - Fugue**

Chapter 13

Evening was setting in; or, at least, what passed for evening on Arda. The LaMP stations – Light And Metaphysical Power – had been constructed to Aulë's exacting specifications over the course of several months, leaving the colony in permanent starlight until the switch was finally thrown. Having just spent close to a year living on a sunless spaceship, however, the sudden appearance of light was the more difficult circumstance for the colonists to get used to.

Designed to imitate the legendary island-city of Almaren, the colony had taken its form, shape and even its name from semi-myth; slabs of marble in a dozen different hues of white had been hewn out of deposits specifically made for the purpose and flown in their millions to the green jewel in the middle of the Great Sea, as it had been (somewhat unimaginatively) named. The automated building drones had built a city fit to house 10,000 in obscene luxury within two weeks.

Manwë's office occupied a building grander even than the architectural wonders that stretched out to the sea line from every direction. In the original Almaren, it was the palace of the God-Emperor Adze; magnificent as it already was, some legends even had it that the entire building had been clad in tiles of pure gold, so that it would glow to remind Adze's servants of his divinity. Thanks to a series of debates which had at times threatened to descend into farce, it was decided not to accommodate this particular aspect of the legend. But, Manwë thought privately, the adherents of the "Gilded Palace" legend must have struck a bargain to drop their protests by being allowed to decorate it. Polished marble floors stretched from one corner of the palace to another, providing a welcome distraction for those who thought life didn't provide enough opportunity to sprain an ankle. Columns decorated in jade and turquoise rose to support impossibly high vaulted ceilings where the merest whispers coalesced into deafening shouts which echoed endlessly against frescoes of scenes from Ain myth; the creation of the world, the First Men, Adze himself.

Amidst all this pretence of antiquity, however, the furniture was of genuine vintage, donated by some of the richest families and most venerable museums on Ain, a priceless cross-section of the epitome of craftsmanship throughout the eras. Manwë's chair was a huge, wing-backed affair in oak and silver, padded with velvet and leather cushions into which he found himself sinking further and further every day. The visitor's seats, a pair of four-hundred-year-old Cabinet seats from the first Democratic world council, looked shabby in comparison.

The mingling of the lights at dawn and dusk still held a childlike fascination for most, having gone – in some cases – their entire lives without seeing a real, unobscured sunset. Despite not being quite the same thing, it was the closest they would ever get, and they were grateful for it. They had been quick to grace the stations "Illuin" and "Ormal" after the twin lamps which were once believed to have been their Sun and moon, and the pun had stuck. Manwë was not immune to this fascination, and every evening at the mingling of the lights he could be found on the balcony of his office, bathing in artificial moonlight. Only the buzz of his communication device drew his attention away from the aurorae that snaked across the sky – a peculiar, unforeseen side-effect of the clashing lightfronts.

"Manwë," he mumbled into the device, still staring at the sky.

"Commander Ulmo to see you, Sir," came the voice of his adjutant.

Manwë sighed. The real world was intruding on his few moments of true freedom. "Send him in", he replied, making his way back inside. Ulmo appeared, silhouetted against the huge doors opposite Manwë's desk, and strode forward with a knowing smile as Manwë brushed past the curtains covering the exit to the balcony.

"Stargazing again?" Ulmo asked.

"Not much else to do around here," Manwë replied, indicating for Ulmo to sit. "What's the matter, Commander?"

"Nothing I can't take care of myself," Ulmo replied as he took his seat, "I just wanted to see how you're settling into life behind a desk."

Manwë laughed, swinging his feet up onto the huge, polished-wood desk that separated the pair of them. "I'm getting used to it," he said.

Ulmo raised an eyebrow. "So I see," he replied. "I must admit, it suits you."

"What does?"

"Command. You wear it well. Eru chose wisely." Manwë averted his gaze, abashed. "Have you spoken with him lately?"

"We try to keep in touch, but it's been difficult of late," Manwë admitted, taking his feet down from his desk and hunching over it. "The crew are getting restless. He's been hearing rumours that people think he's micromanaging. I don't believe so," he said, shaking his head dismissively. "If you were in charge of building a planet, you'd want to keep an eye on it too. I don't feel too oppressed."

Ulmo nodded. "Some of them must have got their way, they wouldn't be shipping out so soon otherwise," he said. Manwë sat up a little straighter in surprise.

"When are they leaving?"

Ulmo smiled, embarrassed. "Within the week, I heard. No doubt the old man wanted to tell you himself," he shrugged. "Sorry. Look surprised."

Manwë sighed deeply. As self-sufficient as Arda was, the presence of the Iluvatar had been a constant reassurance, a link to Old Ain. Shuttles went back and forth between ship and surface daily, bringing lucky visitors to see the world they had built first-hand, and sending members of Arda team back for one last catch-up with friends they would soon never see again.

"Well, we knew the day had to come eventually," he muttered. "It's just a bit daunting now we're actually facing it, you know?"

"Yes, yes," Ulmo agreed, shifting in his seat. "This is it. No going back."

"Any regrets?" Manwë asked, resting his chin on his hand. Ulmo paused.

"No," he said. "You?"

"Only that dad isn't here," Manwë replied with a sad smile. Ulmo nodded solemnly.

"He'd be proud of you. Both of you," he conceded, graciously. Melkor, despite being even less sociable on Arda than he had been on the Iluvatar, had spent every hour the gods sent working to complete the LaMP stations and the colony's electronic infrastructure to his own demanding specifications, and had earned a grudging respect from all. The distance between the brothers had also gone some way to mellowing Manwë's rage, and the two were back on speaking terms.

A knock at the door precluded Manwë's response, and Varda emerged from the other side with a covered tray. "Am I interrupting?" she enquired.

Ulmo got to his feet immediately, offering the salute to his superior; as Manwë's elected second-in-command, Varda technically outranked Ulmo, and the pair of them had been sure to rub it in as much as possible.

"At ease, Commander," she laughed.

"Is this what the Deputy Commander of Arda's job entails, then?" Ulmo quipped as he stood easy and made to leave. "Getting the Commander his dinner?"

"Yeah, and opening letters, greeting visitors, that kind of thing," Varda replied.

"And don't forget the foot rubs," Manwë added. Ulmo snorted as he shut the door behind them, leaving the couple alone.

"So," Manwë began, sitting at the edge of his desk as Varda crossed to his side, "what's this?" Varda smiled, eyes sparkling, as she took the lid off the tray. Two silver cups sat steaming before him, and a long-forgotten aroma filled his mind with a flash of old, happy memories. "No," he breathed. "No!"

"Believe it," Varda whispered to him, setting the tray down and taking a cup. The hairs on Manwë's arms prickled with excitement.

"Coffee," he sighed, longingly. " _Real_  coffee?"

"The first beans of the first-ever Arda crop," Varda replied as Manwë took the cup in his hands and inhaled deeply. "They thought that Glorious Leader should have the first cup."

"Very nice of them," Manwë said, a gormless grin fixed to his face. "Have you asked them about the grape harvest yet?"

"Wine takes a bit longer, dear," she replied, lifting her cup. "To Arda, I suppose."

"Please," Manwë scoffed, "I'm not Eru. How about…to us?"

Varda's smile spread like the sunrise. "To us," she repeated as they touched cups and took a sip.

"Oh!" Manwë groaned, throwing his head back in joy. "Oh!"

"You like it?" Varda giggled.

"No!" Manwë laughed, setting the cup down. "It's horrible! But it's  _real!_ " He swept up his wife in his arms and spun her around, eliciting a squeal of joyful terror. They laughed together in Ormal's fading light, kissing beneath the aurorae.

"Come out onto the balcony with me," Manwë asked as he kissed Varda's ear.

"You're not thinking of recreating that story about Adze's last wife, are you?" she replied.

"Of course not," Manwë protested, taking his wife's hand and leading her to the doors. "We don't have a lion."

"Very funny," Varda said as she squinted into the dying, but still strong, northern light. Her breath caught in her throat as the city unfurled before her clearing vision like a developing daguerreotype. Dusk made the marble spires of Almaren glow gold, almost beating out the electric white of floating power couplings. From her vantage point Varda could make out the sea beyond the city, stretching from horizon to horizon, a perfect tropical blue. The whole place seemed an opalescent gem in a crown of azure.

"Gods of starlight," she breathed. A flock of seabirds wheeled and circled in the distances, their calls echoing over the quietening city. "It's so beautiful."

"It's ours," Manwë said, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "He chuckled. "You know, there is another legend, about how Adze used to consummate his marriages," he muttered, his hand slipping slowly beneath Varda's waist.

Varda's knees buckled as her husband's rough hand pressed against her. "Oh, Commander," she whispered, "think of the scandal…" she moaned as his fingers slid deeper between her legs.

"No-one's around," Manwë cooed, his other hand sliding up her torso to squeeze her breast slowly. "Come on, before they put us in the Tank."

"Estë assured me that everything works just as it used to," Varda replied. "She and Irmo have made  _very_ sure, apparently…"

Manwë laughed as he held Varda's body closer to his own, his arousal pressing into the small of her back. "Trust those two."

"Manwë, we can't," Varda giggled between moans. "There are people…"

"No, there aren't," her husband replied smugly. "No-one's disturbing us."

"Are you sure?" Varda asked tremulously, her back arching as Manwë's fingers sent a wave of sensation through her body.

"Very," Manwë growled. He bit his lip as his wife slowly bent over, her dark hair spilling down her back, bracing her hands against the stone wall of the balcony and pressing her hips back. Manwë's pulse raced faster, and faster, until-

"Commander?"

"WHAT?" Manwë roared into his communication device before immediately composing himself. "Sorry, what?"

"C-commander Melkor is here," his adjutant replied timidly. "He says you have dinner plans." Manwë seethed silently, closing his fist tightly across the little black box at his collar as Varda hung her head so low her long curls brushed the floor.

"Please," she muttered, " _please_  can I kill him?"

"Wait your turn," Manwë muttered, adjusting himself discreetly as he turned to return to his office. Varda sighed deeply, still bent forward, and now thoroughly disappointed. When she returned after spending a minute to perfect a facial expression that didn't convey revulsion, she found Melkor and Manwë engaged in tense, quiet conversation in the middle of the room, their jaws tight and faces stern. Melkor gave Varda the most imperceptible of nods, before returning to talking to Manwë as though she were not even present.

"Are you boys going to stand there talking shop all day," she piped up to cover her indignation, "or are we going to eat?" The pair parted to allow Varda to walk between them to the door, flashing identical smiles which almost simultaneously disappeared.

Manwë let out a long, satisfied groan, sinking another six inches into his seat. The bright red shell of a two-foot lobster lay in tatters before him.

"Remind me", he said, unfastening his belt, "to send my congratulations to Yavanna's team."

Dinner was being served in Manwë and Varda's private dining room, just one part of the complex of rooms which comprised their quarters. A large octagonal table dominated the small room, which, in keeping with the general theme of the Royal Palace, boasted yet more murals and paintings on every wall. Ormal's light trickled down from a skylight above, competing with electric lamplight to project phantom curlicues on the polished wood.

"What'll that say?" Melkor replied, eyeing the glut of empty plates which surrounded Manwë with disgust over his half-finished meal. "'Dear Biotech, Thanks for all the animals, sorry I've eaten them all, Love, Manwë'?"

"Well if you won't eat them, I will," Manwë retorted, refilling his glass with wine. "Finish your rabbit food."

"Meat makes you slow," Melkor muttered in response, pushing a radish around his plate with his fork. "Makes you sleepy. Dulls your senses. My eyes are more open than they've been in years," he said, casting a huge-eyed stare at Varda.

"I think you need to get out more, mate," Manwë chuckled, glancing over to his wife. She gave a fragile smile which made his heart ache. Despite his usual boisterous turn, acting the life and soul of the party, Melkor's very presence had set his brother on edge; never the stockiest of men, Melkor's recent vegetarian diet had rendered him practically skeletal, his wrists looking as though they'd break under the weight of his cutlery and his face drawn and pinched, exposing jutting cheekbones. But there was something else to him; the feeling of menace and unease that seemed to follow Melkor wherever he went seemed to have been concentrated and multiplied, manifesting itself as a very real dread. It was in the way his eyes darted and head wobbled on his slender neck, like a viper preparing to strike; the way he always seemed tensed, coiled, as though conserving energy for some tremendous explosion of activity.

"I will," Melkor exclaimed, spearing a slice of carrot. "Very soon. Can't leave a job half-finished, though," he trailed off, nibbling from his fork. "Everything has to be perfect." He raised his ice water to his lips. "Perfect," he repeated, taking a sip.

Varda and Manwë shared a worried look. Melkor working himself into mania was nothing new, but there was an intensity to his distraction which chilled them both. Suddenly, he set his fork down and pushed his plate away.

"I'm done," he said, draining his glass and taking to his feet. "Sorry to leave you so early, but there are…things," he intoned cryptically, "which need my attention. I'll not leave it so long next time, though." Manwë faltered before getting to his feet and taking his brother's shoulder.

"I should hope not," he replied warmly. "Give my love to Enwe."

Melkor's face became a pale skull, eyes bulging and lips taut. "Goodnight," he muttered, before rushing from the room, without another look towards Varda.

"He," Varda said as Melkor's footsteps echoed down the hall, "is not right."

"Fucking tell me about it, love," Manwë groaned, collapsing into Melkor's vacated seat and rubbing his face tiredly. "I had hoped that having a girlfriend would make him a bit more normal, but he just seems to be getting weirder by the day."

"Do you think they've broken up?" Varda said, rising and circling the room to drape her arms around Manwë's neck. "He looked horrified when you mentioned her."

"Could be," Manwë replied noncommittally, leaning back to nuzzle Varda's throat. "Could just be working too hard. Aulë tells me he's been putting in twenty-hour days. They had to take him off the floor last week on Irmo's orders."

"No," Varda replied, incredulously. "How did he take that?"

"How do you think?" Manwë chuckled mirthlessly. "They nearly had to call security!"

Silence washed comfortably over the two of them, still entwined. "You owe me," Varda whispered in Manwë's ear, her fingers idly brushing the hair at the base of Manwë's abdomen.

"Oh?" Manwë replied, whispering into his wife's ear. "What's that?"

* * *

Melkor returned home as Illuin's light was at its peak, flooding through the high windows of the vestibule in vast sheets of blue. Despite the tiredness that gnawed at every bone in his body, and the hunger borne of eschewing half of his meagre meal in his hurry to leave, he didn't take the stairs to rest or eat, but headed straight for the back of the house, where his workstation was set up. Tossing his smart cloak aside and rolling up his sleeves, he got to work immediately, overseeing the ceaseless work of the drones that laid the thousands of miles of cables between the LaMP stations and Almaren and wired every building and computer system into the network individually. Swarms of light floated across his screen in patterns unreadable to all but him, hypnotising and entrancing him instantly. Several minutes passed before a croaking voice rose above the quiet hum of servers and the click-clack of keys.

"Melkor," it said, "are you not coming to bed?" Enwe stood in the doorway wrapped in a thin robe, her shoulders hunched and eyes dark with fatigue.

"Not just yet," Melkor replied, not taking his eyes from the screen. Silence fell between them like a wall.

"Please," she asked, plaintively. "It's been weeks."

"I have work to do," he retorted, pulling another screen closer towards him. Enwe took tentative steps across the room, reaching out to caress his shoulders.

"You work so hard," she cooed, her voice breaking. "You've done so much. Come to bed and…and rest." Melkor twisted his body sharply, breaking Enwe's weak grip.

"Go to bed, Enwe," he muttered impatiently. "I'm nearly done."

Enwe's hands curled into fists and she silently exited the room, disappearing into the blue-washed hallway and back to their room. As he heard the door slam he swept his hand before the screens, bringing up windows of schematics and calculations and the pale, intent face of Mairon.

"Are we clear?" Mairon's voice came cold and sinister over the speaker.

"Yes," Melkor replied, fingers typing frantically. "Was the shipment received?"

"It was."

"And everything was there?"

"All present and correct."

Melkor let out a long, desperate sigh. "That's the hard part done with, at least," he muttered. "Are your men trained?"

"I picked them myself," Mairon replied. "Each of them has considerable experience. You don't need to worry about  _our_  resolve, Sir," he finished, his intonation causing Melkor to look up from his work. Mairon coughed uncomfortably. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Permission granted," Melkor replied with an undercurrent of warning in his voice.

"Sir, the lieutenant's distraction has not gone unnoticed, least of all by myself," he said. "Strange as it sounds, I think I preferred her actively questioning your orders than the silence she now brings to proceedings."

"Are you accusing Lieutenant Enwe, Mairon?" Melkor hissed, eyes narrowing.

"No, Sir," Mairon retorted immediately. "But frankly, I do question if she is up to the task she has been given. I believe there are others who could shoulder her responsibilities more ably."

Melkor exhaled slowly, torn between anger at Mairon's tone and the realisation that he spoke the truth. The rift between himself and Enwe had only grown further since they landed on Arda, despite his graciousness in placing her so close to the centre of his plans. In recent days she had become more demanding, almost unreasonably so; expecting him to work regular hours, insisting that the two of them have time alone. It had been a huge personal disappointment to Melkor when he had decided not to entrust his contingency plan to Enwe, and instead began conferring in secret with Mairon.

"She knows too much," Melkor replied. "It would take too long to familiarise someone new with the remit of her abilities, and in any case there might not even BE anyone else with her unique mix of skills," he continued, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. "Leave it with me, Lieutenant. I'll make sure she pulls her weight."

Mairon nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Mairon, when are you going into the Tank?" Melkor asked after a long stretch of silence, punctuated only by the clicking of keys.

"Tomorrow, Sir," Mairon replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been going over the code for the avatar projection system," he said. "Our good doctor gave me a copy, wanted me to double-check there were no bugs. There aren't, but I don't think any of them quite realise just how flexible that code really is. They say it works on your residual self-image," he went on with a quick glance behind him, "but from what I can see – and this is no more than an educated guess – it can't tell the difference between subconscious and focused conscious thought – albeit a very, VERY focused thought."

"Like a lie detector, unable to tell the difference between falsehood and nervousness?" Mairon replied.

"Exactly," Melkor hissed, eyes wide with excitement. "I don't go in for another week, so I'd like you to run a little experiment, if you would."

"What is it, Sir?" Mairon asked, instinctively sitting up straighter.

Melkor pulled his chair closer to the screen and looked dead into camera. "I want to see if you can change the colour of your hair back to blonde just by thinking it. If we can do that…" Melkor trailed off. The wild look in his eyes finished his sentence for him.

"As you wish, Lord Melkor," Mairon replied. A thin, cruel smile spread across Melkor's face, pale and menacing in his computer screen's green glow.

* * *

_Heat. Unbearable, searing heat. Varda felt the skin of her cheeks pucker and roast, and opened her eyes to see her world ablaze. Oily black smoke crept along the ground, choking everything in its path, pouring from the fires that towered above her. The white marble of Almaren was stained grey with ash and soot, and all around her their mighty city fell; spires crashed to the ground, entire city blocks collapsed under the weight of their own stone with foundations rotten and framework splintered._

" _MANWË!" she screamed, her throat torn to shreds by the smoke that began to smother her. "Manwë, help me," she coughed, hot tears hissing down her burned cheeks. Shadows began to flit across the flames, the gust of strong wings throwing her backwards. She looked up, and there she saw it; a monster, shaped like the fire-drakes of the oldest legends, descending upon her. It was unspeakably huge, seemingly bigger than the city itself, bearing down on her head-first. And between its horns, in armour as black as the depths of space and carrying all Hell in his wake, there stood-_

Varda jerked awake, nearly throwing herself out of bed. Her heart beat against her breast so hard it made her feel sick. She stood and dragged herself to her dresser, legs still half-asleep, momentarily forgetting where she was. As she collapsed into her chair, she hid her face in her hands and let out a silent scream, her shoulders shuddering. She glanced back to see Manwë's figure perfectly outlined by the thin quilt covering him, his back rising and falling gently in unbroken sleep. With a sharp swallow she picked herself up and fumbled for her communicator by the nightstand, clipping it to her ear with trembling fingers.

"Nienna," she whispered into the therapist's secure channel, "I know you're asleep, but it can't wait. See me in the morning – I don't care who you have to cancel to do it. I…." she trailed off, her throat closing in fear as the dream replayed itself on the inside of her eyelids like an afterimage of the sun.

"I don't think they're just nightmares," she whimpered. "He's planning something."


	14. Part 2: Fugue - Chapter 14

 

Days passed unremarkably. The Iluvátar was still in orbit, its plan to depart having been delayed by a problem with the LaMP stations, and Varda was at a loose end; with the Iluvátar's presence synchronising all of Arda's satellites, there was little for Geosat to do beyond housekeeping. She had begun to occupy herself by going through Melkor's recent requisition orders; being the Deputy Commander afforded her certain privileges. Her dream of some nights previous had convinced her Melkor was up to  _something_ , even if she couldn't think what; and even if Nienna categorically disagreed.

 _I told you, you can't just start having visions_ , she'd said with more than a hint of annoyance the morning after Varda's frantic call, having endured a long and detailed account of their dinner with Melkor and Varda's subsequent nightmare.  _The fire represents disorder and the dragon your fear of it. And Melkor, in armour, is a fatalistic personification of strife. Do you want my advice as a professional? Relax more._

"Relax more," Varda muttered to herself, scowling as she scratched a deep, hard line in her mahogany desk with a pair of compasses. "I've had fuck all to do for weeks."

"Ah…Commander Varda?" came a tremulous voice from the doorway. Varda sighed silently.

"Come in, Ilmarë," she said with a note of impatience. A mousy-haired young woman with thick-rimmed glasses skittered into the room, shoulders hunched and clutching a tablet to her chest like it was a precious family heirloom.  _Darling Ilmarë,_ Varda thought tiredly.  _A wonderful technician, but so bad with people._

"You have an urgent call, Ma'am," she said, eyes darting around the room as though they were afraid to meet another person's. "It's diverting to my…" she trailed off, waving the tablet to prevent herself having to talk any more in the presence of another.

"Very well," Varda said, taking the lock off her workstation. A beat passed between them, and Ilmarë remained, bobbing on the balls of her feet, staring at nothing in particular. "You're dismissed," Varda reminded her, and the technician practically ran backwards out of the room.  _The best and the brightest,_ Varda thought to herself with a groan, clipping her communicator to her ear. "Varda," she spoke into it, immediately accepting the call.

"Commander Varda, Ma'am. It's Lieutenant Nessa. Can we talk?"

"Of course," Varda replied, "What's the problem?"

"I meant…in person," Nessa replied. Varda paused. The lieutenant sounded out of sorts; almost afraid.

"Of course," Varda replied softly. To question her further at this point, she could tell, would be pointless. "Where?"

They met in the park which comprised the West Gardens of the Royal Palace, taking a seat together on a bench beside the pond. A few pleasantries gave way to uncomfortable silence as both watched pelicans bathe in the cool, clear water.

"Are we in a spy film?" Varda muttered. Tension broken, Nessa snorted.

"I just wanted to make sure we weren't overheard," she replied. The smile which almost always adorned her freckled, youthful face faltered and failed. Fear clung to her; Varda could feel it. It was hollowing her out.

"What's wrong, Nessa?" she asked. Nessa scanned the horizon before pulling her tablet from her hip.

"I've been working on something; a miniature drone camera. It has the resolution of our best surveillance equipment on a body the size of the palm of your hand, and I was taking it out for a test run a couple of days ago, and…" She paused before tapping the screen, playing the footage paused on it.

The North quarter of the city stretched out beneath the camera's eye as it bobbed up and down, like a buoy on a calm sea. Ormal and Illuin's lights were mingling in the way they did each dusk, creating an opalescent aurora in the clouds which cast long, snaking shadows across the white marble.

"Wow," Varda breathed "The picture quality, the stability, that…that is incredible, Nessa, congratulations. You could make First Lieutenant for thi-"

"Watch," Nessa interrupted her sternly. Before Varda could even frown, a dark blur pierced the churning clouds and hurtled towards ground at huge speed, twisting as it fell. Within a second it had disappeared behind a building and Varda flinched in expectation of the inevitable explosion – but it never came.

"What was that?" she gasped.

"A shuttle," Nessa replied, rewinding the footage and zooming in on the object. In slow-motion, the unmistakable outline of one of the Iluvatar's shuttles appeared plain as day against the coruscating clouds.

"A shuttle?" Varda repeated, incredulous. "A shuttle crashed in the city and we didn't notice?"

Nessa held her gaze and directed her to keep watching. Varda's brow furrowed in confusion, and then rose in surprise as the shuttle shot upwards at speeds she had thought would have been impossible, before disappearing once more into the clouds. The footage cut to black, leaving Varda gaping at a blank screen.

"It looks like it landed on the northern edge of the city. Everything there is empty; it won't be occupied until the Iluvátar ships out. And that's a military-style drop," Nessa explained into the silence. "Fast in, fast out. Takes a lot of experience piloting a shuttle to pull that off, too. Military experience," she intoned darkly.

"How'd you know that?" Varda asked, beginning to find her tongue again. Nessa smiled sadly.

"Knocking around with Tulkas for so long," she chuckled. "He's fond of his old war stories. More importantly," she continued, her voice lowering even further, "I looked through our records to see what was being delivered, and why they were so far from the usual landing sites."

"And?"

Nessa sighed. "There isn't one. We have no record of this shuttle ever coming here. I even checked the Iluvatar's records to make sure, but they don't have one either." Silence fell like a stone as Varda appreciated the enormity of this information.

"I-I don't understand," Varda hesitated. "There'd be a record in the satellite logs. Every time something passes through the thermosphere, the satellites detect it and send me a report. I don't recall receiving any report at the time of this…" Varda sighed heavily. "I don't mean to correct you, Lieutenant, but it's just not poss-" Varda stopped, the weight of her own words hitting her.  _It's not possible_ – exactly as Nienna had said to her.  _If that's so_ , Varda thought to herself,  _we'd better start believing in impossible things._ "Or maybe it is," she conceded.

"There's more," Nessa said, swiping her finger across the screen to bring up a new feed. "This is one of my northernmost cameras, facing north along the Ring Road. Everything north of it is uninhabited. Watch."

Varda watched as people milled to and fro along the white-paved street, going about their daily business, until suddenly – had she blinked, she'd have missed it – a tall, slender figure appeared from around the side of a building and blended seamlessly into the crowd. She jabbed a finger to the screen to pause it and circled it anticlockwise to rewind the recording. The pit of her stomach clenched as the mysterious figure's face became fully visible.

"Mairon," she said, lip curling in disgust as she watched him infiltrate the crowd effortlessly, like an alligator sliding into the water.

"He wasn't alone," Nessa continued, tapping the screen twice. The feed split into four smaller screens, each showing a different view. One by one, Varda saw crewmen exit empty side streets and join the throng of people, each with darting eyes scanning the crowd. Her chest swelled with indignation. What were they up to?

"I know he works for Commander Melkor," Nessa said softly. "That's why I brought this to you. I don't trust…" she trailed off, clamping her mouth shut.

"You don't trust Commander Manwë not to be biased in favour of his brother?" Varda finished for her. Nessa averted her gaze, abashed. "You're right," she reassured her. "He would be." Varda sighed and handed the tablet back to its owner. "Do nothing," she ordered her. "Tell no-one. Keep this entirely between us." Nessa's mouth open and closed dumbly, trying to form a question she couldn't quite bring herself to ask. "Mairon's a lickspittle," Varda explained. "He'd never be so bold as to do something as blatantly suspicious as this, unless Melkor was ordering him to. If we wait, and see what he does next-"

"Then we've got him," Nessa finished Varda's thought for her.

"He'll lead us right back to his boss," Varda confirmed.

Nessa released a breath she'd been holding for what felt like hours and nodded, giggling nervously. "Yes, Commander," she said, standing and saluting.

"We'll talk again soon," Varda said, returning the salute, "and keep your eyes open."

"I will, Commander," Nessa said, walking away. "All of them!"

* * *

"Long nights have I spent," Irmo said, holding his hand up to the light and examining it, "wondering which me is the true me; is it my soul, which sleeps, or my mind, which wakes? Am I truly alive, or just dormant? Is this just the projected consciousness of an unconscious body, or have I – by my very being – transcended humanity, and become something approaching the divine?" He absent-mindedly stroked a scalpel down the back of his hand, watching as the minute hairs flattened and sprung back under the metal.

"Were I to cut myself," he murmured, "I should bleed, but not blood. I would feel pain, but I would not be hurt. Are we even human anymore?"

Nienna coughed nervously. "I only asked if it hurts when you go in."

Irmo blinked and returned to the land of the living. "Oh, no, not at all. It just feels a bit…strange." He returned to his seat and steepled his fingers. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No," Nienna blurted, flashing a toothy smile. "Just…curious."

Irmo and Estë's practice was to the far east of the city, overlooking the Great Sea. It was the only building in Almaren to have been designed to the exact specifications of its inhabitants, with the doctors having insisted that their spiritual beliefs be reflected in the appearance of their home and workplace. As such, the ubiquitous white marble was covered in vines and other climbing plants which stretched from the foundations up, snaking up the spire to the heavens and flowing down the eastern façade into the sea like thirsty roots.

Inside, too, flowers blossomed and leaves stretched out towards the light as stalks sprouted upwards from floorboards or crept along walls. The trickle of running water was never far away, as tiny streams coursed along grooves to join the cascade which fell down to the bottom floor, gathering in a great pool where the basement would have been, draining out to the sea.

"Very curious," Nienna muttered.

"Well, I'm happy to reassure you all the same: stasis is completely and utterly safe. Estë and I insisted on going in first, that's how sure we were of its safety – and we were right!" Irmo said. Nienna smiled diplomatically; there'd been a fair amount of hair-pulling over the thought that the two best doctors left of Ain might pointlessly kill themselves at the same time, but Irmo and Estë had remained blissfully unheeding to it all.

"It's more my…abilities," Nienna explained, "that I'm worried about. How familiar are you with the Touch?"

"Estë is just about the leader in the field," Irmo said, with a touch of pride, "but I'm familiar enough with it. And again, you don't need to worry; what we call the 'Touch' is just another form of sensory experience, like seeing, hearing, and so forth. I can see and hear you just fine, despite the organs we commonly associate with doing so being miles beneath ground," he continued, breaking into a wide smile. "Every sensation we have, even pain, is registered in the brain, and not the part of the body we usually associate with it. The avatar is, at its most simple, a remote beacon, receiving information and transmitting it to the brain, and acting on impulses from it."

Nienna nodded slowly, rubbing her head. Just the thought of her presence being artificial gave her a headache. "It's best not to think about these things, however," Irmo said quietly. "The potential for an existential crisis is quite high."

"Quite," Nienna concurred. "Shall we get this over with?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Irmo exclaimed, leaping to his feet and beckoning Nienna to the elevator behind his desk. "It's a rather long journey, I'm afraid, so I hope you're not claustrophobic," he said as he pressed his palm to the reader by the door and ushered her inside. "Especially as you're probably going to spend the next few decades buried alive a mile underground," he added nonchalantly as the doors slammed shut.

The lift plummeted downwards at such a speed Nienna nearly lost her footing. "Decades?" she asked. "Will looking for a reversal to our sterility take that long?"

"Oh, yes," Irmo replied sadly. "It's a fiendishly difficult problem. Something about the Blight affected us on a genetic level, permanently altering the base code which – for as long as we've known, anyway – connects all Ainur. All of us have our quirks of DNA, of course, it's what makes me tall and you short, you dark-skinned and me light-skinned, but there was a basic 'template' that every single Ainur shared; it's what separated us from the animals. Ever since the Blight, however…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "The sequence keeps changing. It's never the same from one person to the next. In some it can be just a single base pair arranged the wrong way, in others it's whole reams of genetic data gone awry. Finding a fix for even one person's mutations would be a difficult job, but one that can fix thousands of different mutations in one go?" Irmo visibly shuddered.

"You know what I like about you, Doctor?" Nienna said after a long, chilling silence.

"What's that?"

"You're very honest."

Irmo smiled, taking the compliment at face value. "Why, thank you."

The rest of the journey passed in awkward silence for some minutes until the dark elevator shaft gave way to reveal a cavern of impossible size, so wide that Nienna could barely see the edge and so deep that she could see nothing of the bottom. A massive stone sphere rose up from the bottom on a mighty stalagmite, with branches of rock jutting out like fronds on a fern leaf. Within seconds the lift was within the sphere, and began slowing down until it came to a complete stop. They exited onto a catwalk which surrounded a lab as complex and imposing as any Nienna had ever seen; bank upon bank of medical equipment stretched out beneath her, with a dozen white-suited doctors running complicated tests dotted amongst them. The large wall opposite the lift bore hundreds of monitors, all displaying the vital signs of the multitude sleeping within the rock.

"Welcome to Lórien," Irmo said, sweeping his arm across his underground domain. "We named it after an old legend from Estë's homeland," he explained, "a forest where the souls of the dead slept, waiting to be reborn on the Last Day. Appropriate, don't you think?"

Nienna steadied herself on Irmo's arm, momentarily overcome by a feeling she hadn't experienced since she was a child; the overwhelming presence of hundreds of souls at once, their thoughts coalescing around her like moths to a flame. "It's magical," she whispered as Irmo gripped her hand tightly.

"I agree competely," he replied, proudly. "Let's find your berth." The hiss of elevator doors to their left drew their attention and two figures stepped out from another culvert in the rock.

"Oh, yes," Melkor announced, striding forward and leaning over the railing to examine the labyrinthine layout of the lab below. "Hell of a setup you've got going on down here, Doctor."

"I knew you'd like it," Estë replied warmly, waving to her husband. Melkor clocked the pair standing next to them and turned with an unctuous smile.

"Doctors," he said, "how nice to see you both." Irmo inclined his head and Nienna forced a smile.

"Commander," she returned the greeting.

"Shall we get started?" Irmo hurried them along. "We do have over a thousand people to get through in the next week."

"Of course," Melkor acquiesced. "Lead the way."

Irmo led them down a staircase to the laboratory and then down a passage carved through the bare rock, which spiralled around the diameter of the sphere until they emerged into the hollow centre. Even Melkor was lost for words as the sheer scope of the place unfolded before the party's eyes; blinking lights covered the far-away inner surface of the sphere, resembling a twinkling night sky, and streams of energy passed leisurely overhead out of gaping holes leading to the statis berths.

"Those are the consciousnesses of the hundreds who reside down here," Estë said over the noise of generators and crackling electricity. "They flood back and forth into our supercomputers, where the sensory information they absorb through their avatars are processed and contextualised, and then relayed back to their sleeping minds. I'm up there somewhere!"

Estë's cheerful tone in describing the detachment of her own consciousness nearly overwhelmed Nienna, who barely managed a nod and a smile in response. "How do we get to the berths?" She asked Irmo. As if on cue, a scow rose up to meet them.

"All aboard," Irmo urged her, jumping onto the vehicle. The journey passed in silence as Melkor and Nienna both stared in awe at the streams of light that flowed from the dozens of culverts in the sphere and pooled in rings around the central shaft from which the lab was suspended, chasing each other around the rock. It was over far too quickly, and the pair had to be coaxed onto the gangway and down to their berths.

The berths were small outcrops of rock, swelling from the edges of the stone like blisters, accessible by ladders and stairs up or down from the central gangway. Irmo guided Nienna to the closest one available and bid farewell to his wife. Melkor turned to Nienna as she descended the ladder. "See you on the other side, Doctor!" he shouted with a strange smirk on his face. Nienna suppressed a shudder; something about the young Commander always put her on edge, but right now the feeling was almost unbearable.

As she set foot on solid rock Irmo powered up the statis chamber, flooding the small compartment with soft blue light and the sound of machinery. A silver gurney stood upright, embedded into the rock, surrounded by crystals of many different hues.

"Please undress and stand with your back to the berth," Irmo instructed her, his head bowed in concentration as he hammered at a keypad attached to a column of computer components which, Nienna thought to herself, looked worryingly jerry-rigged. She removed her shoes and jewelry and divested herself of the long, flowing dress which had become her trademark, clutching it to her naked skin.  _What if I never feel real cloth against my real skin again?_ She thought, inhaling the perfume that clung to it.

"In your own time," Irmo encouraged her. With a sigh, Nienna cast her dress away and stepped backward onto the gurney. The cold metal sent a shockwave through her body, raising goosebumps on her arms.

"Initiating stasis field," Irmo said out loud as the crystals encrusting the edges of the gurney began to glow. An energy field cascaded down from above Nienna's head to encase her in a bright white shell. She felt her limbs becoming lighter as it crept downwards, until it reached the bottom and she found herself hovering an inch above the gurney. Without warning it began to tilt backwards until she was horizontal, at which point the crystals reached peak luminescence.

"Good luck, Doctor," she heard Irmo say from what seemed like a great distance away, before she felt her body disappear.

_Hello, Doctor Nienna!_

**Who said that?**

_It's me, Irmo._

**Has it wo-**

_Well, it's not really me, per se. This is a recording of my consciousness being played within your own mind, right now._

**Oh. Why-**

_The purpose of this recording is to get you accustomed to your new body. You can do everything you could do before you entered stasis, and you can feel everything you could feel too, but adjusting to the avatar could take a while. We're going to perform a few simple exercises._

The fog around Nienna's mind began to clear and she saw herself in an endless white expanse. Her feet touched solid ground, but she couldn't make out a horizon. Irmo stood a few metres away from her, dressed in his traditional white coat.

_Walk over to me._

Nienna looked down at her body. Everything seemed in order – hands, legs, feet, all the usual. Nothing felt any different, apart from the surreal surroundings. She walked forward to Irmo, who promptly disappeared when she reached him.

_Good!_

Nienna spun around to see him standing where she had just stood.

_Now back to me._

Nienna frowned and walked back. Irmo disappeared again and reappeared where he had originally stood.

_That's it. Now, let's try a few stretches. Follow me…_

Irmo began a simple stretching routine which Nienna copied with no trouble. After a few minutes, he vanished again.

_Now, a test of your senses. Your surroundings will turn different colours. I'd like you to call out the colours as you see them._

**Red.**

**Blue.**

**Yellow.**

_STUPIDFUCKINGSLUT_

… **Excuse me?**

_Please state the colour you see._

… **Green.**

**Purple.**

_KNEEL!_

The virtual world seemed to lurch forward, sending Nienna crashing to the ground. The environment changed colours rapidly, all the hues blurring together to make a muddy, unfriendly brown which seemed to close in around her.

**Doctor Irmo, what's happening?**

_Shut up you fucking slut no-one cares no-one wants to hear what you have to say_

**What?! Irmo, where are you? What's going on?**

_SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!_

The featureless expanse suddenly erupted, breaking into pieces like a shattering plate. Twisted spires burst from the ground, reaching higher and higher into the infinite sky as Nienna tried in vain to get to her feet. But the gravity of the simulation seemed all wrong; her head felt like it weighed a ton while her legs were pulled in the opposite direction, sending her rolling helplessly across the sharp, jagged landscape.

_You're all so fucking stupid and you can't see it none of you deserve any of this I'm going to make you pay you ignorant servile scum let's see who's so high and mighty when you're all bowing down to me I'll kill the women first_

Nienna screamed as the voice pierced her like a knife, drilling into the very core of her. It seemed to come from everywhere, at an ear-splitting volume.

_You have no idea none of you have any idea what you've been breeding what you've allowed to grow all of you so confident so secure so sure nothing could hurt you you will beg for death before the end_

Nienna clasped her hands to her ears with a tremendous effort, wrenching them free of their invisible bonds.

**I know you! I know your voice!**

Melkor's form coalesced in front of her in billions of pixels pouring in from holes in the endless sky.

_YOU'RE NOTHING! YOU'RE ALL NOTHING! THIS IS JUST THE START! THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING OF THE END!_

Nienna clamped her eyes shut as images of death and horror flashed before them, forced into her mind. Images of fire, laying waste to the white marble of Almaren, of her loved ones in chains and dying. The dragon, its mighty wings beating a hurricane, descending upon the city to crush it once and for all.

**NO! NO, GOD, PLEASE STOP!**

_THIS IS WHERE IT BEGINS!_

Nienna forced her eyes open. Melkor stood before her, resplendent in black armour, like the star-iron the warlords of the ancient world would wear and prize above all, holding a spiked mace in his hand.

_THIS IS HOW YOU DIE!_

The mace came crashing-

"-crashing!"

White hands flitted before Nienna's eyes.

_This is how it starts._

"-stimulant? Administer-"

_This is how you die._

A thump on her chest. The sharp pain of a needle.

"Returning to normal."

_This is only the beginning._

Nienna awoke with a sharp, desperate breath, tearing her throat ragged. Strong hands gripped her arms and kept her pinned down as she tried to blink stars and blotches from her sight.

"Easy now, easy," Irmo's soothing voice washed over her. "You're alright now, Nienna."

Nienna tried to speak but managed only a wordless groan. She felt like she'd been paralysed; her mouth wouldn't form words and she couldn't feel her legs.

"Nienna, focus on me. Look at me, Doctor." Nienna looked into Irmo's deep blue eyes, intense and frantic with worry. "Good. Nienna, something went wrong with the introductory programme. It crashed while you were inside it and your body reacted as though it had had a stroke, but you're okay now. We've administered you with gamma-stimulant to reverse the damage but it'll take a few hours until you're back to normal. Can you talk yet?"

Nienna moved her mouth tentatively. It was numb and uncooperative, as though she'd just woken from surgery.

"Yes," she slurred.

"That's good. The damage wasn't as great as I'd feared. Estë, help me get her up," the doctor asked his wife. Nienna felt Estë's short, strong arms wrap around her waist and drape her arm around her neck before they lifted her slowly from the floor, sending her stomach spinning through her body.

"What!-" Nienna blurted, her legs giving way and nearly dropping back to the floor.

"Shush, easy," Estë cooed. "It's just you, you see?"

Nienna looked on in horror at her own face, placid and asleep beneath the misty crystalline shield of her stasis berth. "Take me away," she groaned, "please." The doctors began to turn to lay her in the floating stretcher behind her when a voice pierced her heart like a knife.

"Doctor Nienna, are you alright?"

Melkor stood at the top of the ladder leading up from the stasis berth, peering down into the chamber. Nienna's knees buckled and the doctors had to dig their fingers into her skin to keep her upright.

"No!" Nienna screamed dumbly. "Monster!" Melkor flinched in surprise.

"Nienna, it's just Commander Melkor," Estë whispered into her ear, trying to calm her. "You're just confused."

"No!" she replied, her unwilling body desperately trying to wrench free from the doctors' grasp. "He's a monster! A monster!"

Irmo sighed and dug through his pocket. "I really am very sorry about this, Nienna," he said softly before pressing something sharp into her armpit. Her vision started to fade instantly, and within seconds she was unconscious.

* * *

"She's really very insistent on seeing you, but she won't say why."

"Of course," Varda replied into her communicator, her voice shot through with concern. "Is she alright?"

"She's more or less physically recovered, but she's emotionally very unstable right now," Irmo said. "I've really got no idea what happened; we've not had a single problem in any of the insertions so far, not even Námo..."

"Well, let's just hope it's a glitch, eh?" Varda replied, sighing heavily. "Would you like me to come now?"

"Absolutely not," Irmo replied firmly. "She's had an extremely traumatic experience, to say nothing of the tremendous physical shock she's had. She needs a full night of rest before she can do anything."

"Alright, I'll come round first thing in the morning. Thank you, Doctor."

Varda turned off her communicator and resumed her evening stroll. Ormal's light had finally waned below Illuin's and the aurorae had abated, giving way to clear purple skies dotted with stars. Varda wandered through the main square of Almaren, admiring the industry with which the new-found Ardans – as they had unanimously decided to call themselves – had set up stalls, offering their extracurricular services for simple barter; one of her own Geosat technicians, for example, turned out to be a very fine dressmaker, while one of Ulmo's lieutenants was a painter of such skill many opined he was wasted in Oceanography, much to Ulmo's chagrin. As life and laughter flowed through the square, Varda's heart felt lighter than it had in days; there was a real sense of community, of belonging. Of having a home, not just living on a space ship. Earth beneath your feet and sky above – these, surely, were the birth right of an Ainur.

She picked up a pair of finely-crafted boots, running her thumb along the seams and appreciating the smell of real leather. "How much?" she asked the stall-keeper, a burly, middle-aged man who Varda recognised as one of Aulë's crewmen.

"Let me think," he drawled, stroking his beard. "I'm sure you've got some lovely plonk up in the Royal Palace, Commander."

"Oh, we do," Varda laughed. "Shall we say two bottles of the Tyr '450 vintage?"

The cobbler's eyes lit up like fireworks. "Very kind of you, Ma'am!" he replied effusively, fishing out the boot's brother from beneath his stall while Varda filled out a chit. They exchanged goods and parted with a wave, before Varda walked straight into an unsuspecting pedestrian, spilling her new purchases across the road.

"So sorry," Varda apologised as she bent to retrieve the boots.

"Not at all," the stranger said, grabbing for the same boot and accidentally clasping Varda's hand. "Oh…hello, Commander." Varda's mouth went dry as their eyes locked for the first time.

"Hello, Enwe," she said. They straightened stiffly. She seemed so very different from the last time they had met; the day Enwe had taken her leave of Geosat and gone to join Engineering. She had by then already begun her transformation from a bubbly, exuberant young woman into something harder and more serious, but now she was barely recognisable; significantly thinner, her rosy cheeks now pale and tight across her face, and her eyes lacking a certain sparkle.

"It's been…an awfully long time," Enwe said uncomfortably.

"Yes," Varda replied, equally uncomfortably, "yes it has."

"How have you been?"

"Oh, fine," Varda lied. "Very busy up in Geosat," she lied again.

"Oh, I can imagine," Enwe lied back. "Engineering's pretty busy too."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard." Varda swallowed hard, unsure of where to look or what to say.

"I'm sorry," Enwe blurted, unexpectedly. "The last time we really talked…I was completely out of line. I'm surprised you didn't have me court-martialled," she laughed nervously.

"Of course I wouldn't," Varda laughed with her. "You're my friend."

The words hung in the air between them. They stared at each other, smiles growing slowly under each other's gaze.

"Would you like to get a drink?" Varda offered. Colour flooded into Enwe's cheeks, just as Varda remembered her.

"I'd love to!" she gushed. "Just let me tell…you know who," she said, almost embarrassed as she took her tablet from her hip and typed a quick message before returning it. "So, where shall we go?" Varda took her friend's arm and walked with her.

"Well, I hear Olórin's homebrew is getting a lot of fans…"

* * *

Melkor stood on the roof of his home, looking out across Almaren.  _Soon,_ he thought. A buzz at his hip broke his concentration. He picked up his tablet and opened the message from Enwe.

"Hook, line and sinker."

 _Very soon,_  Melkor thought with a smirk.  _Very, very soon._


	15. Part 2: Fugue - Chapter 15

 

The door flew open and Illuin's light silhouetted Irmo's tall, lean figure in the opening. The tiny, dark-haired woman on the other side threw her arms around his waist, clutching her face to his chest. "I'm so sorry I took so long," Irmo whispered, embracing Vaïre tightly. "There was an emergency in Lor…in the Tank," he corrected himself, settling his rimless glasses on the bridge of his nose as he straightened up.

"I understand," Vaïre said kindly, her eyes dark and wrinkled with strain. "Námo does, too, I've no doubt."

Irmo nodded somberly. "How is he now?"

Vaïre led him upstairs to the bedroom she and her husband shared, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls. "Resting," she sighed, "at last. On the whole he's felt much better ever since he went into the Tank, but…his episodes have become much more unpredictable."

"I'm not surprised," Irmo replied softly as they waited outside the door. "The nature of the shared consciousness which the stasis field induces seems to affect everyone differently; most people, like you and I, suffer no ill effects, but to those with exceptional mental abilities, like Námo and…and others," he mumbled, "it seems adjusting to the new input can take some time…and cause some discomfort."

"Has someone else been affected?" Vaïre asked, concerned. "I know Nienna was meant to go in last night – is she alright?"

"I couldn't possibly say one way or another," Irmo said. "The confidence of a doctor is sacrosanct. But suffice to say, Námo is not the only one suffering these difficulties," he reassured her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's weathered far, far worse, I'll warrant."

Vaïre nodded, smiling sadly. "Much worse," she said, wiping away an errant tear.

"Well then," Irmo said, "let me see my patient."

Námo and Vaïre's room resembled a hospital berth more than a bedroom – medical equipment and monitors crowded the space, beeping and hissing quietly. Námo lay in bed, quilt tucked up to his chin, perfectly still. To any but his devoted wife and experienced practitioner, he could have been mistaken for a corpse – a shrunken, withered body, immobile in white sheets, mouth gaping. Sixty years of a life most didn't survive beyond thirty had taken a toll, robbing him first of the use of his legs, and then of his looks; despite being merely middle-aged for a modern Ainur, the deep crags in his forehead and cheeks, liver-spotted skin at his temples, and steel-grey hair that grew in tight curls gave the impression of a man of nearly a hundred.

Irmo pulled up a chair and sat by him, resting a hand on his patient's chest, "Námo," he whispered, "it's me, Doctor Irmo."

Námo woke with a snort, opening grey eyes to greet his doctor. "Good morning, Doctor," he croaked, coughing. Vaïre immediately ran to fetch him some water.

"Morning? Sorry, Námo," Irmo replied, opening his bag and retrieving a scanning device. "You were out all day, it's nearly midnight now." Nemo's wild, bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. "I hope you slept well."

"Well enough," Námo replied, groaning as he heaved his body up into a sitting position. "I think I must have knackered myself out."

"Mm…Vaïre tells me you were in quite some distress last night," Irmo said sympathetically. "Do you believe it was a genuine Vision?"

Námo looked to the door warily. "I don't know," he replied quietly. "To be honest, I'm not sure I know at all anymore. Ever since I went into the Tank…"

Irmo nodded. "It's going to take you some time to separate the real thing from the background noise," he said, running the device down the length of Námo's body. "It's like learning to walk again with a prosthetic leg."

"Chance'd be a fine thing," Námo wheezed, coughing violently as the device began to squeak and whistle. As if on cue, Vaïre returned with a flask of ice water, which Námo downed thirstily. "Thank you, sweetheart," he sighed, stroking his wife's hand as she climbed onto her side of the bed to sit beside him.

"Do you remember what you saw? What you said?" She asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Not this time," Námo replied, shaking his head sadly. "Can't have been that important."

"I think it's still worth finding out," Irmo advised him, packing up his bag. "In my capacity as your doctor, that is." Námo nodded silently in assent.

Vaïre cleared her throat. "You said…you said,  _Blind the eyes, bind the hands; take the head, claim the lands_." She repeated it while Námo and Irmo listened in silence. After some seconds Irmo spoke.

"What do you think it means?"

"That I was never meant to be a poet," Námo replied dismissively. Vaïre laughed as the tension burst like a bubble. "I must be getting morbid in my old age."

"Well, the scan says you're recovering as normal," Irmo said, taking to his feet. "I can only heal the body; the true healing, I leave to someone far more capable than I." Vaïre blushed and rose from the bed, embracing the doctor again as he took his leave.

"You seem very sure that you didn't have a Vision," she said as she returned to her place by Námo's side, resting her head on his shoulder. "It was a bad one, too."

"If I was going to have a Vision," Námo replied breathlessly, "I wouldn't do it in bloody rhyme. No, I know what's the real deal and what's just me losing my mind – and you can put that one in the padded room."

* * *

Nienna sobbed silently, cradled in Varda's arms. "I've never," she croaked, "never…"

"Shush," Varda cooed, stroking her friend's hair and clutching her head to her bosom. "You're safe now."

"He was…inside me," she whimpered, "in every part of my mind and body, right down to the core…" She collapsed into a coughing fit, her face a blotchy mess of tears.

"I know," Varda replied, fighting back a sob. "It's what he does, it's how he works."

"I've never," she repeated dumbly. "Never, never in my life…"

The two sat in the hospital room in silence, punctuated only by Nienna's sobs and sniffs. Varda had attended the hospital as soon as she was allowed, expecting to find her friend her usual upbeat, indefatigable self. The thousand-yard stare Nienna had greeted her with had pierced her.

"I didn't tell Irmo any of this," Nienna whispered after long, horrible minutes of ceaseless sobbing. "He wouldn't understand. Not even Estë would. They're not Touched…they don't know."

"How do you think it happened?" Varda asked as Nienna peeled herself away from her shoulder, wiping a mess of tears from her face. "Why couldn't you feel it before?"

"He's obviously  _very_ adept at hiding his true nature," Nienna replied, sniffing. "I can't…read minds, exactly. It's nothing so specific; I just get impressions, feelings. You can hide it, with training; Special Forces back on Ain were given psychic training to negate the use of people like me in warfare."

"I thought that was illegal anyway?" Varda muttered. Nienna scoffed mirthlessly.

"What I'm saying is, unless Melkor was secretly in the Special Forces back on Ain, he's taught himself how to shield his mind from psychics. Putting both of us in the Tank at the same time…" she trailed off, rubbing her eyes violently as though it would banish the memory. "It exposed both of our minds completely to each other. We existed in an entirely unconscious state – pure thought. In that state – at least, according to the most current theories – my abilities would be almost limitless. And against a mind so…overwhelming…" Nienna lowered her head to her knees and breathed deeply.

"It's okay," Varda reassured her, stroking her shoulders. "You don't have to go on."

"He's evil," Nienna blurted. Varda's hand retracted in surprise. "I never thought I'd ever use that word," she laughed. "I always believed the world was divided into finer lines than good and evil, that nothing was ever truly irredeemable, but…" Her shoulders heaved as tears began to fall down her cheeks once more. "The things I saw…the things he showed me…things he has done, and things he plans to do…"

Varda leaned in close to her friend. "What is he going to do, Nienna?" she whispered. Nienna's huge brown eyes met Varda's, shimmering with tears.

* * *

Ormal's light was at its strongest, casting deep black shadows across the pure white of Almaren. Ardans packed the streets, walking from home to work and back for their lunch break, each of them giving Commander Varda a wide berth as she travelled with the flow, hollow. Each step became a trial as her legs buckled and weakened from the stress until she reached a square where she could collapse onto a stone bench, overlooking a gilded fountain which shone almost blindingly in the midday light.

Her throat closed up and chest tightened as the horror that had been hanging over her since she left the hospital finally fell, breathing hard and deep to try and control the tremors. One or two heads turned as they passed her, but for the most part the people of Almaren were content to leave the Commander to her panic attack and hurry along, embarrassed. Nienna's words rung in her ears incessantly, like the whine after an explosion. She had thought Melkor capable of much – manipulation, sabotage, mind games – but never this.

The communicator at her wrist beeped. "Commander Varda?" A voice rang out, shrill and tinny. "It's Lieutenant Nessa."

Varda sniffed noisily and brought the device to her lips. "Varda here," she said with as much calm as she could muster.

"Commander, I've found something…something new. I think you should meet me," Nessa said quickly, her voice rasping as if she were whispering into her communicator. "In my office. I…" she lapsed into silence. "I don't feel safe leaving."

Varda's stomach fell through her body. "Of course," she said. "I'll be along presently. Engage your Incommunicado protocols and don't turn them off for anyone except me. Understood?"

"Roger that, Commander. Nessa out," she signed off. As the connection severed the wherewithal Varda had hastily gathered fell apart like a house of cards. She gripped the edge of the bench until her knuckles turned white, her entire body trembling as silent tears darkened the flagstones.

"Varda?" A familiar voice murmured behind her, barely audible above the bubbling water. Varda rubbed her eyes and looked around to see Enwe taking a seat by her side, oblivious to personal space as Varda had ever remembered her being. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Varda lied, forcing a smile. "Just…visited a colleague who's in the hospital," she said. "She wasn't in very good shape. I'm just over-sensitive, I guess."

"Oh, darling," Enwe cooed, her eyes huge and glassy, as she slipped an arm around Varda's waist. "I know that feeling all too well. It's never nice. Do you want us to go and get lunch? It'll make you feel better."

"No," Varda blurted, straightening up and forcing Enwe's hand from her hip, "Sorry," she said as Enwe's face reddened and lip swelled, hurt. "Really, I am, but I can't. I have things to do." She sniffed noisily and wiped her red eyes with her sleeve. "Maybe later, though? I did enjoy our little catch-up last night," she said, forcing another smile. The hours she had spent with Enwe had only furthered her resolve to stop Melkor – everything about Enwe's effusiveness seemed forced and fake, a veneer to cover a deep, dark blackness that ate at her from within, which Varda could see in heartbreaking clarity when the façade dropped. It was in the coldness of her eyes, the way they would stare straight through you as she talked; in the size of her smile, exaggerated to parody. It had been like watching Melkor do a very convincing impression of her friend.

"So did I," Enwe sighed happily, taking Varda's hands in her own. "Where do you need to be? Perhaps we could meet halfway."

"I'm off to Surveillance," Varda replied, getting to her feet. "They're thinking about making the control system satellite-centred rather than go through their central server; it might free up some of their processor power."

Enwe smiled. "You know," she said, walking around the fountain with her old friend, "I do miss the world of satellites, sometimes."

"You're happy in Engineering, though?" Varda asked.

Enwe hesitated a crucial split-second. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm very happy."

"Well, as long as you are," Varda said, pulling Enwe towards her for a tight embrace. "I'll contact you in a bit, let you know where to meet."

"Of course," Enwe replied, waving to see her friend off as Varda set off down the long, bright path towards the Surveillance building in the west of town. With every step, Enwe's smile faded and eyes narrowed, until the woman Varda had been talking to disappeared entirely.

* * *

Surveillance was based to the West of the city in one of its tallest buildings, a great fluted spire rising up like a seashell poking through the sand. In her office near its pinnacle Nessa sat at her desk, eyes flitting between the half-dozen floating feeds from her cameras throughout the city and the door, occasionally resting on the red light above it, glowing to indicate that she was Incommunicado. The outlines of crewmen trotted back and forth on the glass, turned frosted at the flick of a switch, which surrounded her office on all sides and sealed her in an inaccessible bubble.

She chewed her lip in concentration as she put together the disparate snatches of footage into a single coherent strain – a few seconds from one camera, a few from another, edited seamlessly together, repeated hundreds of times. Her heart thumped in her chest, on edge from the sheer concept of what she was doing; what she was about to show the Commander would be enough to bring Commander Melkor to court-martial.

A priority message flashed up across her screen, causing Nessa to swear loudly.  **Maintenance Access To Server Request** , it said. Approving it with a scan of her palm, she dismissed the message with a violent swipe and returned to her work. Bit by bit the thread became clearer, and before long the evidence was almost complete – when another priority message flared up across her screens.

"Oh, for f-" Nessa bit her tongue, feeling her cheeks prickling with anger. Remembering the many long talks she and Nienna had had, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out deeply, dispelling the tension that had built so quickly.  **Officer Presence Requested Urgently** , read the message from the maintenance team. Nessa's heart nearly leapt into her throat – what had those Engineering savages done to her server? With her eyes flitting back and forth between her work and the door, and Varda's instructions nagging at the back of her mind, she reluctantly saved her work, took off her Incommunicado protocols and dashed out of the door.

Crewmen twice her size hugged the walls to let her pass, all too familiar with her fiery temper. She ducked into a service hatch and slid down the ladder within, dropping three stories until she reached the server level.

"Hello?" She called out into the darkness. Her voice echoed in the cavernous space, a mausoleum of data with monolithic server stacks for headstones. Dry ice, used to cool the towers, pooled about her feet, completing the illusion. Nessa raised her wrist communicator to her mouth. "Maintenance team, rep-" a hiss of static cut her off. Nessa swore under her breath, remembering too late that the proximity of the servers rendered her comms useless. Rubbing her numbing arms, she set off down the main path through the stacks, making her way towards the only noise she could make out above the soft whirr and hum of drives.

"Someone requested an officer?" she shouted, receiving no response. The chill and silence of the place unnerved her deeply; shadows danced in the artificial fog, which rose into oppressive curlicues around her. She was almost upon the noise now – no doubt some Engineering idiot had his headphones in, or something.

After almost a full circuit of the circular room, Nessa stopped. The source of the noise was just another server – but it was different, like a rotten tooth in a pristine mouth. She stepped around it, scrutinising it; she couldn't put her finger on what was different about it. The noise, certainly – but it was more than that. The entire thing looked out of place.

"Is anyone around here?" she called out down the aisles, convinced an engineer must have been there very recently. Feeling her cheeks hot with frustration, even in the chill, Nessa took a deep breath of frigid air and set about examining the server herself.

The front panel wouldn't come loose. Neither would the back panel. The two secondary panels on the sides, too, wouldn't budge. "Stupid…thing…" Nessa grunted as she pushed and pulled at the stack. "What have they…done to…"

With a great tug, Nessa managed to tear off the entire front of the server, staggering backwards and slamming painfully into another stack. Throwing away the façade angrily, Nessa pushed her short ginger fringe from her eyes and examined the-

Her breath caught in her throat, her muscles locked and she could have sworn she felt her heart stop. The server was empty, stripped of the usual banks of drives and motherboards, with all its trays gutted and replaced with what looked like bricks. Bricks with wires linking them, and tiny pieces of machinery dotted into their surfaces.

And a timer.

Nessa couldn't move. She couldn't think. A single letter  _B_  died on her lips half a dozen times before the breath finally expended itself as a scream. Adrenaline flooded her system and she tore back through the servers, head whirling as she looked for the ladder back up to the main level.

"EVACUATE! EVAC-" she screamed into her communicator, almost sobbing as static cruelly cut her out again. A trailing cable caught her feet and sent her flying, skidding painfully across the floor. Pushing herself back to her feet, she hopped and stumbled back to the service hatch and pulled the heavy door closed, spinning the wheel to lock it in place before setting off back up the ladder.

"EVACUATE THE BUILDING!" she shouted again and again into her communicator, praying with every rung that this would be the one that brought her back into range. "SECURITY! BOMB IN THE SURVEILLANCE TOWER! REPEAT, BOMB IN THE S-"

* * *

" _BLIND THE EYES! BLIND THE EYES!"_

"Námo! Námo, God, please, calm down!" Vaïre sobbed, holding down her husband's feeble yet deceptively strong body as he bucked and seized.

" _BLIND THE EYES TO EVERY LIGHT! QUENCH THE SUN AND BRING THE NIGHT!"_

"Doctor!" Vaïre shouted into her communicator, pressing her elbow into Námo's shoulder to try and subdue him. "I need a doctor! This is Lieutanant Commander Vaïre, I need a doctor at my residence immediately! Repeat, this is-"

A deep boom echoed from afar, stealing Vaïre's attention away from her husband. Seconds later, a wave of force shook the entire building, rattling the windows in their frames and sending furniture juddering across the floor. All at once, Námo's seizure stopped.

" _It is done,"_ he muttered, before lapsing into unconsciousness.

* * *

Varda got up from the ground, for split-second forgetting how she got there. Her palms were gritty and bloodied from her fall, and her head ached like a hangover. As her vision cleared, she saw others ahead of her still on the ground, groaning in pain or screaming in horror, pointing upwards. The blood in her veins chilled as she glanced up and saw it.

The surveillance tower, once a pristine spike of pearl-white which glowed in the light of the LaMPs, was torn open. A hole gashed across its pinnacle, belching black smoke and orange flame, with the very tip of the building teetering dangerously. The tiles which clad its outer layer bore the damage of a blast wave, a cone of destruction fanning out down its length like a racing stripe.

"No," Varda said to herself, "NO!" She ran forward, almost ignoring the people which lay wounded and dazed around her, calling out her name for help. She stopped in her tracks amid more screams as the pinnacle came crashing down, rolling down the side of the building and tearing even greater ruts in the façade. White and grey dust filled the air and mingled with the smoke, casting a pall across the sky.

Varda's legs gave out, and she collapsed to the ground. "No," she whispered, sobbing like a child. "No…"

Sirens and alarms filled the air as drones took to the sky, followed closely by emergency response shuttles tearing across the sky from Security in the north and the hospital in the east. Cries of misery and confusion rang out across Almaren, and Varda slumped backwards, giving herself up to exhaustion.


	16. Part 2: Fugue - Chapter 16

Smoke and flame filled the sky, rising from the collapsed tip of the Surveillance tower, like a new-born volcano. Far to the South, from his base of operations in the Engineering sector, Melkor stood fire-watching.

Crewmen and officers worked double-time behind him, frantically loading every shuttle they had with rescue tools and medical supplies. Cries and shouts filled the air as pilots hurried the effort and volunteers dashed, arms laden, from ship to ship. A warm wind blew from the north, scattering dust and eye-stinging smoke across the open shuttle bay which comprised most of the outer courtyard of the Engineering headquarters. Melkor, standing far in front of the tumult, closed his eyes and breathed deep, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine and fire.

"Commander," Mairon came from behind him. "The shuttles are almost ready. You're still determined to be the first to set foot in the tower?"

"Of course," Melkor replied, tugging his cape from his shoulders and stretching his arms as Mairon began attaching the mechanical exo-skeleton ubiquitous of rescue workers to his limbs. "Such a tragedy deserves my full attention, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, Sir," Mairon acquiesced, tightening bolts until Melkor was able to move freely, his arm and leg strength now multiplied several times. With a grunt, his lieutenant lifted the final piece, a heavy silver chest-plate, into position and locked it shut. "Your ship waits for you." Melkor smirked and turned on his heels, casting his cape to the rising wind as he made for his shuttle.

"The Commander's shuttle is to lead the way!" Mairon boomed across the assembled ranks lined beside their craft, standing to attention as their Commander passed. "The Commander is to be the first boots on the ground! You do nothing until I tell you to! Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Mairon!" Came the thunderous reply. Melkor stopped in front of his shuttle and surveyed the men and women under his command. Lean, hungry, ready – like him.

"Our friends," he shouted, "our loved ones, are relying on us! There will have been casualties in the tower, but there are a thousand people in Almaren who are injured and afraid – I will not have it!" He cast a dramatic arm behind him, pointing to the burning tower. "Make safe the Tower, and then the City! To your ships!"

A mass "Yes, Sir!" nearly bowled Melkor over with its verve before the hundreds of engineers before him rushed as one to their shuttles, which powered up one-by-one to send hot whirlwinds across the asphalt. Grabbing Mairon's proffered hand, he hauled himself into the co-pilot's seat and strapped his helmet on.

"Come on," he rasped into the switched-off microphone, "let's go be heroes."

The armada took to the air with a roar and tore across the darkening sky, the half-ruined tower growing ever closer in their sights. On the streets, injured Ardans held their hands to the sky and called for help as they passed over.

"Whoever's bringing up the rear," Melkor ordered, "set down and offer medical assistance." He turned in his seat to watch one of his twenty shuttles descend quickly, surrounded by clamouring hands the moment it landed.

The tower was now just seconds away. Up-close, Melkor was astonished by the damage; the entire tip was gone, some forty feet of building blown apart, and thick black smoke belched incessantly, its fire fed by the feast of raw materials in the servers.

"Shuttles one through six," he ordered across the radio, "make for that hole on level 32, where the pinnacle hit. Fight the fires from the bottom up. My team and I will descend to the top and ascertain if the structure is stable." Short, electric bursts of acknowledgement peppered the channel as he pulled himself from his seat and back into the main cabin, where Mairon and his four most trusted underlings gathered in exo-skeletons and breathing apparatus.

"Right," Melkor said as he pulled the large, clear mask over his face, "you'll only have a few minutes before the smoke starts to clear, so use its cover as effectively as you can. Lieutenant?"

"This is the stuff," Mairon said, handing out canisters to his men. "Anhydrous gamma-treated francithide. Get enough of this everywhere and it'll mask any trace of explosive. The priority," he stressed, "is the centre of the explosion."

"And these," Melkor continued, opening a hefty black case and dispersing its contents, "are for if you find anyone alive in there." The engineers examined the objects curiously – a weight black cylinder, a few inches long, with a node at one end and a button on its length. Eyebrows rose as Melkor pressed the button and the node emitted a blinding flash as bright as a sun. "Tragically," Melkor said, his dark tone shifting into a well-rehearsed public speaking patter, "we found no survivors. Not even remains." Mairon's grim smile filtered down through his men and they pocketed the devices.

"Prepare to descend!" He ordered his men as the pilot hovered as close to the exposed and burning top as possible. The doors of the shuttle slid open, and they were almost deafened by the combination of the wind, the engines and the raging fire beneath them. Melkor looked out across the sky and saw his shuttles waiting in a circle around the tower, ready for his signal.

 _Into Hell,_ Melkor thought as he flung himself out of the shuttle, feet-first and arms spread wide.

_Fifty feet._

Almaren opened up before him, stretching away beneath his feet as he trod air.

_Forty feet._

The sound of the engines died away as the wind whipped about his body.

_Thirty feet._

The roar of the fire below grew louder, like a beast waiting to swallow him.

_Twenty feet._

Black smoke enveloped him, blocking his vision entirely.

_Ten feet._

The heat was real, intense and overwhelming. He could feel the plate metal of his exo-skeleton begin to warm through.

_Touchdown._

Melkor slammed into the burning floor with tremendous force, bending the metal framework on impact. Seconds later, Mairon and his men followed him, each crashing to the ground like a falling star.

"Sound off!"

"Here," came the replies, one by one, as they straightened up and surveyed the area. A few of the server stacks, mostly those on the other side of the central column, had survived the explosion but now burned fiercely, the main contributors to the oily smoke which not only rose high above them, but also seemed to coalesce at their feet and pour down the side of the building like water. Even through their exo-skeletons, the heat was close to intolerable.

Wordlessly they began to work, spraying the contents of their canisters on every exposed surface, making their way together to the centre of the explosion. Within a few minutes the glistening substance stretched as far as the eye could see, rapidly becoming transparent in the heat of the fire. Soon enough, there wouldn't even be evidence of the thing they used to cover up the evidence – just as Melkor had designed it. Melkor allowed himself a smug chuckle as he turned in the centre of the destroyed room, appreciating the destruction he had wrought.

"Commander!" one of Mairon's men called out over the radio. "Get to the central shaft, you're going to want to see this!"

"What's the-" Melkor stopped himself short as he strode through the smoke to the central pillar, where Mairon and his men were gathered around an open hatch. They parted immediately as he came into view, exposing a battered, bleeding body lying curled in the foetal position at the base of the ladder within.

"It's Lieutenant Nessa, Sir," Mairon said as Melkor leaned over to scrutinise her, like a child poking a dead animal with a stick. "She's still alive." Matted blood darkened her fine ginger hair and her pale face was white as snow, drained of all colour as she slowly bled to death.

Melkor straightened up, his face gnarled with anger. "I thought I made myself  _quite_ clear-"

"I thought, given the trouble she's caused you," Mairon explained with an evil smile, "you might like the honour yourself."

Melkor's face slowly dropped as he considered it. His lip twitched, fingers stretching to the device at his side. "Yes," he whispered with a strange little smile, pulling the device from its holster and standing over her, his legs stretched wide over her prone form. He pressed the node to her breast, feeling his member throb and harden as he prepared to press the button and-

"Commander Melkor!"

An unfamiliar voice crackled over his radio. He leapt away from Nessa and replied angrily, "Who is this? Identify yourself!"

Three figures in similar, but far more heavy-duty, exo-skeletons appeared through the smoke, carrying what looked like medical equipment. Two immediately rushed to Nessa's side, sending Mairon's lackeys backing away urgently while the other stepped forward and flipped open their visor.

"Someone needs a doctor," Estë replied, her pure-white eyes seeming to glow against the blackness which surrounded them all, "and I am one." Her attractive face was severe and threatening, lined with anger. "We were scanning for life signs and found seven instead of six," she explained as her men quickly attached breathing apparatus to Nessa's face and strapped her into a stretcher. "If you'd called for aid as soon as you found her we would have been here within seconds."

As Estë's men worked, Mairon slowly crossed to Melkor's side, desperate for instruction. Melkor's mind raced. What now? How much did Nessa know? If she pulled through, she could almost certainly implicate him – one way or another.

"We thought she was dead at first, Doctor," Melkor replied, managing to control his fury. "I was trying to ascertain how close to death she was."

"Well, that's why you're not a doctor, Melkor!" Estë yelled, crossing to stand chest-to-chest with him, her visored face just inches from his and furious. "Do your fucking job, and let me do mine! Your delay could cost this woman her life!"

Melkor bowed his head in mock contrition. His hand stretched once more to the device at his side. There were six of them, and only three facing them. If they were quick, they could dispatch them and say they fell deeper into the inferno, their bodies never to be recovered. As long as they had the cover of the-

A mighty gust nearly sent them all sprawling. Melkor turned into the wind, hands outstretched, and could just about make out a shuttle pointing its engines in their direction. The draft was dissipating the smoke before it could coalesce, driving it off and exposing them to the ring of ships above.

"WHAT-" Melkor screamed into the blast. "WHO-"

"Nearly done, Commander!" Aulë's voice rang out over the radio. "The fires in levels 40 to 50 are under control, the only serious fire left is the one on your level!"

"I appreciate the sentiment, Commander," Estë chipped in, "but we've a seriously wounded woman up here who we need to get to my ship, and we can't do that in this crosswind!"

"Seriously wounded…is it Lieutenant Nessa?"

"Yes," Melkor growled, stumbling forward as the shuttle rose and the wind abated. "Yes, it is."

"Oh!" Aulë groaned, his deep voice shot through with anguish. "She's alive! Gods be praised, she's alive…"

"For now, at least," Estë warned him as her men carried her double-time through the smoke to their waiting shuttle. "I'm warning you, Melkor," she spat, "if she dies, I'm coming after you." She flipped her visor down and disappeared into the thinning smoke, as Melkor's face twisted with rage.

 _And if she lives,_  he thought to himself,  _everyone else will be, too._

* * *

Manwë sat at his desk in silence. His huge office was like a cocoon from the chaos that was unfolding outside, with shuttles and drones surrounding the torn-open Surveillance tower and emergency responders tending to those outside the building who'd been injured by falling debris. The noise barely reached him in his bubble of command, far removed from the thick of the action. His first response had been to pull on his boots and attempt to lead the response from the front, but his security team had practically physically restrained him in their efforts to stress how important it was that the leader of the mission not endanger himself needlessly. Despite a long and protracted shouting match with Oromë, eventually the larger man had cowed his commander into leaving the rescue to the professionals, pointing out how much of his time the argument was wasting. Only when one of Oromë's men had confirmed Varda was alive had he finally relented.

Bar an extremely tense and fraught conversation with Captain Eru, during which had stressed to the old man over a dozen times that Arda's response teams were already in full swing and had total control of the situation, he had done nothing but pace from his office to his bedroom and back, unable to think straight. He hadn't even looked at the tablet his adjutant had delivered him some hours ago – a hastily-drafted speech, due to be delivered to the colony at dusk. Taking to his feet, he pressed his communicator.

"Eönwë," he called his adjutant, "I'm not waiting any longer – I'm giving the speech now. Prepare the address system."

"Yes, Sir!" Eönwë replied enthusiastically. Manwë pulled his communicator off his wrist and threw it, with a roar, across the room. He seethed and fumed, pacing heavily from the desk to the door and back again. This life was not his – leading from the back, watching from the wings. Ulmo had said command had suited him, but it wasn't the kind of command he was used to. Word had reached him that Melkor had led the first wave of responders personally; leaping down into the flames to check the building was safe. He would have given anything,  _anything_ , to stand side-by-side with his brother in the protection of his people. With a heavy heart, he left his office and made his way to the broadcast room, to do his insignificant part.

* * *

_Cmndr Vrdr, cn yh hr mh?_

Varda moaned and tried to move, but her limbs wouldn't respond. The world seemed dark and far away.

_Cmandr, cn you opn yor eys?_

She opened her eyes and winced in pain as bright light seemed to pierce her skull. "Where-" she managed to mumble.

"You're safe," said a deep, warm voice. "You took a bit of a tumble. Certainly not the worst injury I've seen today." She looked up and saw kindly, familiar blue eyes staring down at her. She winced as she struggled to recall the name of her helper.

"Olórin," she groaned. The young man gave a musical chuckle.

"Well, you can't have hit your head that badly," he replied, helping her to sit up slowly. Varda's vision cleared and she began to see what lay around her; injured people lay on blankets in rows down the street while volunteers tended to wounds and fetched medicines. Far above them, the Surveillance tower smoked gently in the distance, the fire having been mostly doused.

"How bad is it?" she asked, unable to tear her eyes from the ruined spire.

Olórin sighed deeply. "Bad," he replied. "First reports say at least fourteen dead in surveillance – it was just luck that this happened when most of the teams were out to lunch, or most of them would have been wiped out. And two dead on the ground when the pinnacle fell," he finished, his soft, young face angelic in grief.

Varda's lip trembled and tears threatened to overwhelm her.  _Nessa…_

"But were it not for the actions of Commanders Melkor and Aulë, further loss of life might have been unavoidable," Olórin continued, sending Varda's stomach twisting and knotting within her. "Together they stopped the fire from gutting the supports and collapsing the building."

"That's…wonderful," Varda spat, her teeth grinding furiously.

"Yes, they're practically singing Commander Melkor's name in the street, now…no accounting for taste, I suppose," Olórin sniffed. Varda had heard enough. Grabbing hold of Olórin's shoulder, she hauled herself up onto unsteady feet.

"Easy, easy, Commander!" her helper chided her, holding her slender shoulders in huge hands. "You suffered a heavy fall, you may have a concussion."

"I need to go home," she slurred, gripping Olórin's arms to hold herself up. "Please, I need to go home, I need to speak to M…to Commander Manwë."

"Of course, Commander," Olórin obeyed, gesturing for a pilot to start his shuttle. "Would you like me to accompany you?"

"No, Olórin," Varda replied as he walked her over to the ship. "I'll be fine." By the lines in his brow, Varda could tell he knew she was lying – but, evidently, he was too gracious to say anything. He helped her into the co-pilot's seat and waved her off as the shuttle lifted into the sky.

"Commander Manwë is addressing the colony now, Ma'am," the pilot said. "Would you like to hear?"

"Of course," Varda mumbled as they rose.

 _My fellow Ardans_ , came her husband's voice across the radio, and echoing beneath them from the hundreds of speakers that dotted every street corner and square in Almaren.  _On a day like today, there are few words of comfort. It seems senseless to us, that so many of our friends and loved ones should be taken away so quickly, and so arbitrarily – and so it is._ Varda swallowed hard as they rose further and the damage to the Surveillance tower became clearer; the falling pinnacle had gashed a long, wide hole down the length of the tower, exposing its innards to the world like the building had swollen from within and torn its façade open.

 _Tragedies like this can't be excused, or justified, or blamed on anyone. We can find the cause, and maybe prevent it from happening again – but these do not heal the wound._ Varda gasped as she saw the full extent of the damage to the tip of the tower – nearly a full quarter of the building was gone, blown away by the blast and send careening down to the city below.  _They do not return our dead to life, or keep the nightmares from our eyes._ Only the central column, built to withstand anything short of atomic fire, remained, reaching up to the sky like the stripped, exposed bone of a drought-stricken animal.

 _But, even in such harrowing times, we can – as I do – take great heart from the courage, resolve and love shown by our brothers and sisters. How boldly, how quickly, they leapt into action at the first sign of danger; how selfless, how fervent their desire to help was._ Below them, Varda could make out a street full of people with their hands raised in celebration – each wearing the distinctive sky-blue work uniform of the Engineering corps.  _It is thanks to these heroes amongst us that we are not mourning an even greater loss of life._ Barely audible above the sound of Manwë's voice, she could make out the chant rising from the street:  _"MELKOR! MELKOR! MELKOR!"_ It sickened her to the core, and the rest of the short journey to the courtyard of the Royal Palace passed in a daze.

_The story of the Ainur has been one of hardship and trial. None of us can say we expected this to be easy – but, equally, none of us can say we let these tragedies defeat our will to live. Our losses will be mourned and their names remembered forevermore – but as one, we will survive, and we will overcome. Commander Manwë, out._

"Commander Varda?" The pilot called her, touching her shoulder lightly. Varda looked around as though waking from a dream. "We're here."

Her footsteps echoed endlessly down the Palace's long and high-ceilinged corridors as she marched to Manwë's office as quickly as her shaking legs would let her. Ormal's light had begun to fade and llluin shone strong through the high windows, bathing the corridor in blue, sucking all light and warmth from the place. Flanked by two guards as she made the long, silent walk to the throne room, she felt as though she was going to her death.

The guards stopped just short of the door, leaving her to walk the final few yards on her own. The creak of the hinges was deafening in the huge space and the slam of the door behind her sent a deep throb through her body. Manwë's chair was turned to face out of the open balcony doors, looking out over his frightened city, his arm slumped lazily out over one side.

"Manwë?" Varda called out. The chair shuddered in response instantly, and her husband shot out of it like a startled cat, practically running to embrace his wife tightly.

"Oh…Gods," he sighed, his shoulders shuddering as Varda wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into his chest. "Oh, Varda, I thought you…"

"I'm sorry," she said, blinking tears away, "I'm sorry for worrying you." The pair stood in silence for some time, holding each other tightly in the middle of the cold office and kissing passionately. Varda held her husband tightly as, for the first time since his father's funeral, he wept.

"That this duty should be mine," Manwë groaned, his rough hand caressing Varda's curls as he sniffed away tears. "Telling our friends that their loved ones are dead…gone, with no explanation, no reason."

Varda's heart skipped a beat and the hairs on her neck and arms rose. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand over Manwë's and said, "We…Manwë, I have to tell you something. And I need you to listen." Manwë took his wife's hands in his own and nodded.

"I…" The words died on her lips. How could she break Manwë's heart like this? "I don't think what happened today was an accident," she said, forcing the words out. Cold silence descended.

"What…what do you mean?" Manwë asked, frowning.

"I mean, I think what happened at Surveillance was deliberate. Someone blew it up." Manwë stared, slack-jawed, at his wife, before breaking out into a nervous laugh.

"You can't be serious?" he asked. Varda nodded, fighting the urge to spill her guts in the manner to which she was so accustomed. Her stomach clenched and twisted as Manwë slowly dropped her hands, shaking his head, mumbling.

"Rubbish," he muttered to himself. "Rubbish!" He repeated, louder. "It couldn't happen."

"It could," Varda replied, taking up his hands again. "It has."

"Well…well…how?" Manwë blurted, breaking free of her grasp to pace back to his desk, rubbing his head.

"Nessa found something," Varda said, following him back. "She showed it to me a few days ago. She was taking one of her drones out on a test flight and it picked up a shuttle landing in the North of the City and then taking off again within minutes. There's no record of this flight on our logs, or the Iluvátar's-"

"If this was so important, why wasn't it brought straight to me?" Manwë interjected, turning to sit against his desk.

"She…didn't want to bother you by going all the way to the top, I don't know – I can't tell you what she was thinking-"

"Well, then, why didn't  _you_  bring it to me?" Manwë questioned her. Varda scoffed, hurt.

"Because I'm not required to bring you every little thing that passes my way, just because you're the Commander!" she said. Manwë's chest swelled and eyes blazed. "May I finish?" Manwë sighed angrily, nodding for her to continue.

"About five minutes later, the cameras in the North sector picked up four crewmen from Engineering behaving very suspiciously, slipping out of the shadows and what have you, and trying to blend in with the crowd. They were led by Lieutenant Mairon-"

"Mairon?" Manwë laughed bitterly. "If you wanted to bring him up on charges of acting suspiciously, the list would reach from here to the door!"

"That's not what-"

"It's  _exactly_ what it is, Varda! All you have is an unregistered shuttle flight, and Mairon and his men acting sneaky. Who knows, they're engineers, maybe they were sneaking some sniff off of the Iluvátar, or maybe they'd gone up to X-deck to visit the girls. Why would you jump to such a… _hideous_ conclusion?" Manwë asked, his brow furrowed with dismay.

"Why are you so keen to defend such suspicious behaviour?" Varda shot back, feeling her heart begin to thump painfully against her chest under her husband's disapproving, disbelieving glare.

"Because I have to trust each and every person on this planet, Varda, implicitly!" He replied, his voice beginning to rise. "I know they're not perfect, the Gods know they're not – I was never under any illusions that they wouldn't want drink and smoke and fuck their way through immortality, but killing nearly twenty people? Destroying the Surveillance building – why? What would they stand to gain?"

"Because he wants to control Arda!" Varda screeched in response. Manwë laughed even louder.

"Mairon?! Control Arda? He daren't so much as fart without Melkor saying s-" Manwë's giddiness stopped all at once as his wife's huge, pleading eyes locked with his. She could feel him cooling, hardening, and growing unmistakably angry. "No," he said simply, shaking his head. "No, you're not about to tell me…no, don't even bother. Don't."

"Yes," Varda hissed, her lip trembling as she felt tears begin to prick at her eyes again. "I know it."

"HOW?" Manwë boomed, his massive physical presence seeming to double as he stood straight in fury. "HOW do you 'know' this?" Varda gulped.

"Nienna," she said, her foot inching backwards. "She's in the hospital-"

"I know she is, what's she got to do with it?" Manwë barked. Varda closed her eyes and breathed deeply, calming herself.

"She had some kind of…mental breakdown, after going into the Tank," she explained, opening red eyes. "She and Melkor were put in at the same time, and she says she saw…into his mind," Varda said, barely keeping herself together as Manwë's chest rose and fell faster and faster. "She saw all his darkest, most horrible thoughts – this is a woman whose  _living_  it is to do that, and what she saw in him was so terrifying it nearly drove her mad!"

"What was it?" Manwë shouted at his wife, growling at the soldiers poking their head around the door. "Well, what was it she saw that was  _so awful_ that my own…my own WIFE," he spat, "would try to tell me my brother is plotting against me?"

"HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU!" Varda screamed. The room filled with a silence more accustomed to the aftermath of a bomb blast. "She saw it, she saw it all! Melkor wants to control Arda, and he is going to  _kill_  you to make sure he gets it!"

She tensed up, awaiting a scream of rage or a flying fist, but Manwë's anger seemed to leak out of him, like a scarecrow taken off its mount. He staggered back, clutching his desk as he slipped downwards, and let out a strange half-sob. Varda stepped forward tentatively, reaching out a hand to her cowed husband.

"You," he sighed, closing his eyes tightly, "you would side with her…over me?" Varda's fingers curled short and she froze into place. "You would take her word…her telling of something she couldn't have had a perfect memory of, her experience of this…mad… _thing_ , over what I know in my heart of hearts?" He shot her a look of perfect pain, a single tear swimming down his cheek. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Varda's face curled into a grimace as she felt her internal organs being crushed into a point. "He's a monster," she whispered, sobbing. "The things he did to me…I never told you, I…I couldn't, you…"

"Oh, this AGAIN?" Manwë roared, rearing up out of his misery like a wounded animal rejoining the fray. "HOW MANY TIMES do I have to listen to this? HOW MANY TIMES do I have to hear you piss and whine about how you and Melkor had a shit relationship? It's OVER, Varda! It was over ten years ago! What about it can't you get over? Are you just…just that fucking _spiteful_ , or something?"

"HE MADE ME FEEL LIKE NOTHING!" Varda screamed at her husband, fists clenched and shoulders bunched. "He took everything about myself that I loved and made me hate it! He used me to make himself feel better, sucked out every bit of my happiness to fill that great black hole in the middle of his heart, and it was never enough! And now he's doing it to Enwe…there's nothing good about him, Manwë, nothing good at all! Maybe there was, once, but he…that boy is dead," she finished, burying her face in her hands and sobbing.

Husband and wife stood separated by the glow of the aurorae that streamed in through the skylight above, a river of light between the two. Manwë breathed heavily against his desk while Varda stood alone, an island of sorrow, crying messily. The evening cool had set in and the warmth of the room was entirely gone, spirited away.

"I know you'll never like him," Manwë croaked, wiping away a tear. "But coming to me with your…bullshit theories, trying to blame this… _this_...on him, while I'm trying to tell the people I'm responsible for that it's going to be okay…Varda, that's just…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "Get out. Just…get out."

Varda's body went numb. It was as if she'd suddenly lost a limb. She tried to reach out to her husband, but her arms wouldn't move, as though there were an invisible wall right in front of her. Without another word she walked away, turning to watch her husband slip down to the floor as the door slammed shut on her.

* * *

Enwe stared out of her bedroom window, sitting in the circular culvert in which it was placed, toward the ruined tower. The fires had finally been put out and the dust had mostly settled, but for the last few clouds trapped in the confluence of lights that played out above them. The scar that ran down the length of the building fascinated her, in an odd, pornographic way; she held out her fingers in front of her, closing one eye, and imagined stroking its rough edges. Something in the way the mighty building had been torn open and hollowed out felt grimly familiar.

Melkor entered unheard and crossed to her side. The weight of his hand on her shoulder made her shudder. She closed her eyes as he bent down to kiss her neck, running his lips up to her earlobe.

"This", he whispered, "is just the beginning." With a squeeze of her shoulder he was gone again, and Enwe breathed a silent sob out onto the glass.


	17. Part 2: Fugue - Chapter 17

**This was originally intended to be one single chapter, but it was simply too long. I've split it to prevent it from being overwhelming. Merry Christmas! - Philip**

* * *

For five full days, Arda mourned. All activities unrelated to the cleanup of the Surveillance tower, or the burial and memorial of the dead, came to a halt while the colony united in grief. Volunteers arrived en masse at ground zero to clear away the rubble, or at the hospital, tending to the remaining wounded. Touched though he was by the Ardans' selflessness, Eru had ordered a thousand crewmen to the surface to speed their efforts, and within a week life had returned to normal – or, at least, as close to it as it could get.

Thoughts turned, now, to the inevitable departure of the parent ship for pastures new in this unexplored galaxy – very possibly never to be seen again. Quiet suggestions that the farewell party be shelved, "given the unhappy circumstances," were met with disdain from both Eru and Manwë, who agreed that, more than ever, the people needed frivolity and freedom. Plans were hastily drawn for a much-expanded event which catered not just to the senior officers, but to the entire population of Almaren. After it became apparent that a banquet for a thousand and a half people could only end in disaster, a compromise was struck – the senior officers would meet for a private meal, followed by a festival in the Royal Park where all of Almaren could gather, eat, drink, make merry, and watch the Iluvátar set off into the black.

As if to banish the memories of the tragedy, the population threw themselves into planning and preparing for the party with even more gusto than they had helped with the cleanup. Entertainments were cobbled together, masses of food were cooked and every last drop of drink donated towards a free bar. Efforts over the senior officer's banquet were no less enthusiastic; the mighty state dining room of the Royal Palace, used until now as the administrative centre of the building, was raised to its originally-intended glory with a long dining table fit for a king, and silverware forged from the last ingots to leave Ain.

Manwë's interest in the proceedings had been total, working sleepless nights to help organise the night's events to perfection. He and Varda had spoken barely a word to each other in the days following their argument; she would retire to bed alone with her husband still working, and wake to find his side of the bed pristine and unrumpled. More often, too, she found excuses to work late, or found herself waking up at her desk. A feeling of wrongness invaded her thoughts hourly – the sense of separation between the two of them was unnatural, surreal, and regularly Varda found herself forgetting it had happened – only for that sense of emptiness, a miserable weightlessness, to envelop her all at once as she remembered.

The nights she didn't spend curled beneath her desk, or sobbing herself to sleep alone in the obscene luxury of her empty bedroom, she spent at Nessa's side in intensive care. After more than a week, the Lieutenant still had not regained consciousness, despite Irmo's best efforts.  _The Tank could save her,_  he'd told Varda, his hands still slick and shiny with gore from surgery,  _or it will kill her – one or the other._ While hope remained, they kept her above ground, waiting, hoping against hope, for a sign of recovery.

Deep in the bowels of the earth, the Tank had had its own medical drama; Nienna, weak as she was from her run-in with Melkor's subconscious, had suffered what Estë could only describe as a kind of "neural overload"; like a lightbulb in a power surge, her mind had been overwhelmed by the sheer amount of panic, grief and pain that had exploded in the city. The built-in failsafes kicked in and Nienna's avatar was deactivated, essentially keeping her in a chemically-induced coma until Estë, working triple shifts, had analysed enough of Nienna's brainwaves to – essentially – "reboot" her.

 _This is my fault,_  Varda told herself as the hours ticked by in silence.  _I put you in this position, and you're the one who's suffered for it._ She stroked the young Lieutenant's short, ginger hair, lip trembling. "What did you see?" she asked aloud, desperate for an answer. "What were you going to show me? Was it worth…this?" She sighed, wiping away a tear.

Melkor's stock with the people of Almaren had only rose further once he announced he would personally lead the rebuilding of the Surveillance tower, cancelling his leave for the next month and urging his staff to do the same. He was seen often in the streets of the city, speaking with the rank-and-file, always flanked by Mairon's imposing presence. His easy smile and knack for persuasion left a trail of admiring glances in his wake, which sickened Varda to the core. He was playing the politician, glad-handing and ingratiating himself. Had Irmo worked a miracle and a baby was born on Arda, Varda was certain, Melkor would have beaten out the mother to kiss it first.

Varda turned to look as the door hissed open. Estë entered, nodded a greeting to Varda, and gently ushered Nienna inside. Varda's heart ached to see her friend now – her almond skin, so recently soft and young, seemed hard and tight across her face, pinched with strain. Crows' feet had begun to form around her eyes and deep, heavy bags hung beneath them, weighing her face down. It was as if she had aged ten years overnight.  _Mental trauma_ , Varda thought to herself.  _The avatar must reflect it physically._

"Oh, no," Nienna moaned in shock, nearly crashing to the floor before Estë wrapped a brawny arm around her waist. "No, no…"

"Nienna, I am sorry," Estë said softly, "but I warned you – you are not in the right condition to deal with this at the moment. You need time to recover," she said as she began to lead Nienna from the room.

"No!" Nienna called out, her voice a rasping mess, utterly unlike the dulcet tones that had made her so effective as a counsellor. "No, please, let me see her!"

"Doctor Estë, please," Varda said, rising from Nessa's side and rushing to the doorway. "Please, just for a few minutes. I'll stay with her."

Estë frowned, her pure-white eyes narrowed into slits. "Five minutes," she said, before helping Nienna transfer her weight across to Varda's shoulders. "I'll be back."

The two shuffled slowly back into the intensive care room and Varda eased Nienna down into a seat by Nessa's bed. Her tiny body seemed almost comically dwarfed by the vast bed in which she lay and the array of medical equipment surrounding her; pumping her heart, stimulating her muscles, breathing for her. Nienna's thin, trembling hands clutched Nessa's fingers as she began to sob.

"I'm sorry," Varda said softly, stroking Nienna's shoulders as she shuddered with grief. "I didn't know you two were close." Nienna turned silently to Varda, eyes puckered with tears, fixing her eye with a meaningful gaze. A sob broke inside Varda as she understood. "Oh, Gods, I didn't…oh, I'm so sorry," she whispered, clutching her friend's head to her chest as she broke down.

"We broke up shortly before we came to Arda," Nienna said, her voice weak and hoarse with crying. "I…I knew she didn't love me. I don't blame her…the heart must have what it must have. But I…" She buried her head into Varda's bosom, muffling her words as though if no-one could hear them, they were never said. "I never told her I loved her," she sobbed, her shoulders heaving violently. The two held each other tightly next to their friend and lover, saying nothing, until Estë returned exactly five minutes after she left.

"What did you tell her?" Varda asked Nienna later, having returned her to her own hospital bed.

"Nothing," Nienna replied, her voice flat and hoarse. "There's no point. She wouldn't believe me, and she wouldn't know what to do if she did. Just…checked me up, and that was it." Silence fell heavy between them, broken only by the soft mechanical noises and beeps of medical equipment. "Are you and Manwë still not talking?"

Varda swallowed hard. "I haven't even seen him in four days now," she replied softly, feeling her lip beginning to tremble. "I don't think I will until the banquet, either." Nienna groaned softly, reaching out to grab Varda's hand. The banquet was just two days away, now, with arrangements having been kicked into overdrive by the nervous energy that enervated the colony.

"I'm sick of crying," she sighed. "I seem to have done nothing else for days, but…" she sniffed loudly. "What else can I do? My husband won't listen to me, even when his life is in danger. The entire colony is putting Melkor up on a pedestal, just so he can step down and crush them underfoot…"

"There must be others," Nienna replied, "Someone, anyone who'll listen to us. Surely Oromë would take a threat to the Commander's life seriously? Isn't he always saying,  _'Don't trust anyone'_?"

"Yes, and that's the problem," Varda grumbled. "He  _doesn't_  trust anyone. He's so busy vetting everyone and everything else that the thought that the Commander's own brother might be a security risk will be the last thing to cross his mind. And even if I were to go to him with my suspicions, it's likely he'd suspect me before he does Melkor. The only proof we have is in your head and…" She swallowed hard as her mind returned, unbidden, to the scene of the crime; watching helpless as high above her the Surveillance tower exploded in flames, taking with it all the evidence Nessa had compiled on Mairon and Melkor's treacherous activities. "Well…there isn't any, is there," she said bitterly.

"Ulmo?" Nienna suggested. Varda shook her head.

"He doesn't like Melkor personally, I know that much," she replied, "but he'd never accept he was planning to do something so monstrous. Not without proof," she sighed. "None of them would. And I don't blame them, not really…Melkor is…skilled", she said with distaste, "at putting on an act. He's pulled the wool right over their eyes. "

"Are we so alone," Nienna muttered, her voice cracking, "that we must sit by and watch this city fall while all ignore us?"

"We have some friends," Varda replied, squeezing Nienna's hand. "Some can yet see through him. Olórin, for one," she said. Nienna smiled.

"Ah, my lovely Olórin," she sighed. "I've taught him well. He'll be a better counsel than I, one day – and he's not even Touched."

"And Nessa," Varda said encouragingly. "We  _will_ get her back, I promise. Irmo will find a way." Nienna smiled, squeezing Varda's hand weakly before swiftly falling asleep, exhausted by her recent efforts. Tucking the sheet up to her friend's chin, Varda stretched her legs out onto the bed and settled down to sleep herself.

 _If you want to stop us, Melkor,_  she thought as she drifted off,  _you'll have to try a lot harder than that._

* * *

The day had finally arrived. Ormal's light broke fiercely across the northern sky, bathing the city in a cool, golden glow, and the people of Almaren were up with the lark to finalise preparations for the party to end all parties. Stalls and stands were hurriedly bolted together, cables were snaked across the Royal Park to provide enough power for what promised to be a neon paradise, and within the Palace, Manwë fiddled with his dress uniform and ran through his speech for the sixth time.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a day of great sadness…no, get rid of sadness, it's too…sad," he mumbled to himself as his thick, callused fingers struggled to force a delicate gold pin through his cuffs. "A day of…great…sorrow, that's better, but also one of superlative…superlative?...joy." He swore as he stabbed his thumb with the sharp end of the pin, sucking it as he awkwardly closed it one-handed.

"Years, decades, even centuries of work have gone into this most auspicious of undertakings…no, forget auspicious, Eru used that in his speech, he'd notice." Manwë threaded his belt, missing no less than three of the belt loops as he continuously mumbled his way through a speech that was only barely less purple than Eru's. "One city, one nation; one people, one race," he said as he buttoned his dress jacket all the way up to his throat before ineffectively tying a silk cravat around his neck, giving up halfway through and stuffing most of the ugly knot down his coat. "Under the eyes of the Fathers, in the arms of the Mothers; forever, indivisible and eternal-"

"-the spirit of Ain endures," Varda finished their age-old pledge, leaning shyly against the doorframe. Manwë stood in embarrassed, uncomfortable silence, like a thief caught in the act. "You can't write a speech and tie a cravat at the same time. Let me," Varda said, entering the room and loosening Manwë's cravat. She ignored the way her husband stiffened slightly as she touched him.

"I thought you would be helping with the waiting staff," he said, looking dead ahead with military stoicism.

"I delegated it," Varda replied as she unbuttoned Manwë's jacket at his throat and held the cravat tightly over his Adam's apple. "It's hardly the kind of job for a Commander, really." Her fingers, trembling as they were, worked quickly to knot and loop the thin fabric about itself.

"So who do we have to blame when we're trying to eat soup with a fork?" Manwë replied, flexing his knuckles tentatively.

"Ilmarë," Varda replied, deliberately over-tightening the knot. Manwë coughed tersely.

"Oh, great, the Nervous Sysadmin," he croaked as Varda tucked the loose material into his jacket. "She's the only person in the world for whom the saying is 'two's a crowd', and you put her in charge of thirty waiters?"

"Sometimes you have to throw people in at the deep end," Varda replied smartly, "to see if they can swim." She stepped back and Manwë turned to the mirror, admiring his wife's handiwork.

"Thank you," he said, absent-mindedly stroking the fabric. A nervous smile passed between the two of them and silence fell once more, unwelcome and strange.

"How are Nienna and Nessa?" Manwë asked at length. Varda paused.

"Nienna's up," she replied, "a bit unsteady, very tired, but she's well on the way to recovery. Nessa is…" The words dried up in Varda's mouth. "Irmo doesn't think she's going to make it," she said softly, pressing her lips shut to prevent them from wobbling. "They're going to take her off life support if she doesn't show signs of improvement by tomorrow." Manwë groaned as if he'd been winded.

"I'm so sorry," he sighed, his entire body seeming to shrink as his head sunk between his shoulders, defeated and humble. With a slight hesitation he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his wife, who rested her head in the crook of his shoulder instinctively. "Is there nothing that can be done?"

"The only option is to put her in the Tank," Varda mumbled, her arms wrapped tight around Manwë's waist, "but they say that has a nine-in-ten chance of killing her, too, and not as peacefully as if they just switched her life support off. It's impossible; I don't know how they live with themselves…"

"They're doctors," Manwë replied sadly, "it's their job. Plus, no doubt they feel they're…returning her to Mother Earth, or whatever it is they believe."

Varda laughed fragilely. "A nice thing to believe, when you think about it," she said, nuzzling into Manwë's chest. "I haven't told Nienna yet," she said. "I don't know how."

"Were they close?" Manwë asked, stroking Varda's hair.

"They were lovers," Varda whispered sadly, feeling tears begin to prick her eyes as she imagined the unique agony Nienna would feel upon learning the woman she loved was dead. It was a pain Varda would do anything to spare her. Manwë murmured in surprise.

"I never knew," he said dumbly.

"No-one did," Varda replied. "Maybe it's better that way…the last thing Nienna would want would be forced sympathy. You know, when you tell someone you're sorry and you wish it was all different-"

"-because that's what you're expected to do," Manwë finished for her, "and she can tell when you're just  _saying_ it."

"Exactly," Varda sighed, closing her eyes to hear her husband's heart race within his chest. The far-off noise of work and hurry echoed down the hallways, a world away from their private moment together.

"I've been so angry," Varda said, looking out of the window onto the Royal Park, where people milled around and made the last few adjustments to the carnival that had sprouted in their back garden. "But I…I'm so  _lonely_ without you. Like I've forgotten how to be alone." Manwë stood in silence, breathing in the perfume of his wife's hair.

"I never want to see another place card in my life," he mumbled, making Varda laugh messily. "I deserve a medal for having set this up on my own. You'd have sorted it in an hour," he chuckled. "I said some…cruel things," he said. "I was out of line."

"To say the least," Varda replied, deadpan.

"But I can't agree with you," Manwë continued, not even breaking his stride. "I understand Melkor did some awful things to you, but-" He was cut short as Varda abruptly pulled away from him, crossing her arms and staring furiously. Manwë's face dropped sadly. "I'm in an invidious position, Varda," he said. "You know as well as I do that I can't upbraid Melkor over what Nienna saw at a time when she was mentally compromised, and even if you had the video footage you claimed, it would only implicate Mairon. But even without that, tell me, truthfully," he said, reaching out a hand to her as he closed the distance between the two of them, "do you  _really_ believe him – flawed as he is – to be capable of an act of such monstrosity?"

Varda stared at her husband in silence, her chest swelling with indignation. There was no way she would be able to convince anyone without cold, hard proof – Melkor had ingratiated himself too well into their favour for her words to sway anyone. But she had seen into his heart, and found nothing but a void. Manwë sighed in disappointment.

"We'll talk about this later," he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he paced the length of the room. "There's simply too much on our plates for us to bother with this…lunacy right now. But just you wait, until after the banquet; I'm sure you'll realise that Melkor's intentions for the colony are nothing but good and, dare I say it, humble, for once."

"If that's how you want it," Varda replied, low and dangerous, before turning on her heels and leaving Manwë alone again.

The frosty mood between man and wife didn't make a dent in the exuberant, celebratory atmosphere of the banquet; from the outset, Manwë was mobbed, by both the Iluvátar's senior officers and the chosen representatives of the various ethnic and social groups which made up the population of Ain – the civilians, as crewmembers called them. The praise they heaped upon him, however, was only slightly more than that which they gave to Melkor; and far from acting – as he usually did – like a small animal watching a shuttle landing inexorably on top of it, he seemed thoroughly at home as the centre of attention and adulation. Manwë watched on with pride as Melkor scoffed and grinned his way through toast after toast, albeit keenly aware of the cold, sharp stare his wife directed his way throughout.

Nessa and Nienna's seats had been respectfully left empty; a reminder of the very real toll the accident in Surveillance had taken. Besides them, the remaining senior officers had turned out in full dress uniform and best winning smiles to give the Iluvátar a jolly send-off; Aulë, in particular, seemed to have found a new lease of life since being given the mighty task of building a pair of miniature suns, and hadn't looked trimmer in decades. His thin crop of hair, too, even seemed to be growing back, full and black. "It's just a glitch in the avatar," his wife Yavanna was quick to quip, "it can't tell the difference between self-image and delusion." Amongst the ripple of laughter, Estë had opened her mouth to contest Yavanna's intriguing interpretation of the technology, before Irmo had discreetly assured her it was a joke.

But the real revelation of the feast was Námo; despite the devastating seizure he had suffered on the day of the explosion, he seemed in finer health than he had for years. His grey eyes no longer seemed dull and distracted but sharp, and his bushy eyebrows strong and expressive. He spoke at great length – for him, anyway – on the benefits the Tank had given him in relation to easing the pain of his condition. One by one, many realised they had never really heard him speak before; constantly out of breath or in pain, Námo had always been a man of few words, but now his deep, lyrical voice held real sway over his enthralled subjects. He had the strange accent of the Mountain-Folk, a tongue unheard for many years; lilting and gentle, but with an understated power and nobility to its rolled consonants and rich, round vowels.

"Pardon if it's a personal question, Sir," one of the civilians asked him, "but I was under the impression that the…'Tank', as you call it, offers one the ability to project oneself however one sees fit; then…how, if…if it's not too much trouble…"

"Then, why am I still in a wheelchair?" Námo finished for him with a knowing smile. The civilian nodded frantically, embarrassed. "Because, for good or ill, within a chair is how I have lived my life. I was ten years old when last I walked unaided; I've lived over fifty years since then. I'd no sooner see myself as a walking man than one who could fly," he finished, a rise of his magnificent eyebrows eliciting a good-natured chuckle.

"For the Gods' sake," Vana muttered to her husband, "you can leave it in the office for a few hours, surely."

"All I'm saying is," Oromë replied, his thunderous bass seeming to rattle the glassware, "this would be the perfect opportunity for an assassin to burst in. Everyone's eating, drinking, we're all sat down, no weapons, big heavy table in the way…"

"And where's this assassin coming from?" Vana replied smartly, waving her knife haphazardly towards the doors. "Four of your men at each door, but of course you already knew that. You're just paranoid," she sighed, biting into a scallop.

"It's not paranoia if you're right," Oromë muttered, scanning the room yet again over the top of his glass.

"Commander," Melkor addressed Ulmo, stretching across the table to lean closer to the man opposite him, "I was wondering; have you come up with a name for that boat of yours yet?" Ulmo raised an eyebrow.

"By 'that boat', I assume you mean the floating fortress we've spent the last nine months building?" Melkor flashed a boyish smile, shrugging as if to say his glib remarks were beyond his control. "Yes, we have, actually. The  _Tol Eressëa_." Melkor gasped.

"The Old Man of the Sea's magical island!" He said. "Wonderful name. I might have suggested it myself. I've always been a fan of mythology, you know."

"So I have heard," Ulmo replied, staring intently at his plate.

Such was Melkor's effort to flatter and befriend that Varda, for the briefest of moments, considered the possibility that Manwë was right; that Melkor was simply at the centre of a series of bizarre coincidences, surrounded by duplicitous underlings and possessed of a truly unfortunate personality. But as if to punish her, images of Enwe's dull and joyless face cropped up in her mind, followed by Nienna's agony and Nessa's broken body. The man left death and pain in his wake, and Varda pushed her plate away, sickened.

When the last of the plates had been cleared away and the forty-strong dinner party groaned in their seats and waistlines, Eru stood up for the fourth – and, everyone was hoping, final – time. "Let's not mince words, ladies and gentlemen…it's a sad day," he said, holding his glass out for a waiter to refill. "There's no shame in saying that; we've all grown closer over the course of the last year or so, and there's no parting which holds no sorrow. But if we can take solace in any fact, at this time when our lives seem like they will be forever poorer for no longer having such fine, fine officers – such fine, fine  _friends –_  in them, it is that they have fulfilled the last wishes of the people of Ain; they have rebuilt our world, to stand forever amongst the stars. The spirit of Ain endures!"

The pledge was honoured at a deafening volume, with all glasses raised and the table near shaken to pieces by the slamming of fists in rapturous applause. The dignitaries rose from their seats and, the always-thin pretence of ceremony having been entirely dispelled, began embracing around the room, some weeping openly. Manwë headed straight for the Captain, who hugged the younger man as though he were a son.

"You've done damn well, my boy," Eru whispered into Manwë's ear. "I couldn't have chosen a better man to lead our people."

"I only followed your lead, Captain," Manwë replied, clapping Eru on the back. "The Iluvátar has the best captain she could hope for."

"It should've been you," Eru replied, breaking their embrace and surreptitiously wiping a damp eye. "The way you are with these people; their dedication to you. You're the finest commander of men I've ever seen; you've even tamed that good-for-nothing brother of yours," the old man chuckled. Manwë's smile faltered.

"I told you he just needed a bit of brotherly love," he replied, forcing his grin wider.

The entire senior staff gathered in the private courtyard to see the luminaries of the Iluvátar take to their shuttles and depart to their ship, for the last time. As the little ships rose into the air and out of sight, they turned to hear a raucous cry sound out from the Royal Park on the other side of the Palace, where the rest of the population stood and watched. Flares went up and horns sounded; it sounded like a cross between a concert and a political rally. The ten of them stood somewhat awkwardly in the courtyard, exchanging glances as if to say – "What now?"

"Well," Manwë said as the shuttles left their sight, "they've gone to all the trouble of putting on a party. It'd be a shame to miss it, wouldn't it?" With high spirits all around, the Valar agreed. As one, they set off to make their way across the palace to meet the people they could now, finally, call their own. No-one noticed Melkor snaking his way to the back, lingering just out of earshot.

"We're on our way," he whispered into his communicator. "Start the clock."


	18. Part 2: Fugue - Chapter 18

 

The senior officers were greeted like conquering heroes when they emerged on the verandah of the palace, cheered and applauded by a rapturous crowd. The sirens blared a triumphant fanfare, a deep and resounding noise that shook the very foundations of the world. The blood-red smoke of flares, waved by delirious revellers, coalesced overhead, glowing with the force of the bright electric lamplight which illuminated the Park; between this unearthly mist and the roar of triumph, the scene more closely resembled a battlefield than a festival.

Manwë, Varda, Ulmo and Melkor stepped forward, arms raised in acknowledgement of the cheers. Melkor, to everyone's dwindling surprise, positive bathed in the adulation, cupping a hand to his ear to increase the reaction. He stood at the front of the verandah, pumping his fist and whipping the crowd into a frenzy before Manwë stepped forward and gently restrained him.

"Careful," he laughed, shouting to be heard over the noise of the crowd, "you'll start a riot!" Melkor laughed good-naturedly, stepping back to allow his brother to take centre stage, watching him intently as he surreptitiously checked his watch.

"Ardans!" Manwë boomed. "This is where we start again! This is where we are reborn! On this planet, in our blood, the spirit of Ain endures!"

A thousand fists rose into the air as the Ardan people repeated their pledge as one voice, raising hairs on every neck – none more so than Melkor.  _They're ready_ , he thought.  _So ready, and they don't even know it._ Manwë squinted as he saw a ruffle in the crowd draw closer and closer to him, like a mole's tunnel kicking up dirt. The people at the front parted and revealed a huge green bottle, over a metre high, stamped with the seal of Ain.

"We thought you'd like to do the honours, Sir," a crewman said as he passed the bottle up to Manwë.

"Oh, now whose idea was this?" Manwë laughed as he examined the label:  _Ardan Spark, Year 1.0_. "What do you think?" he asked his officers, who nodded approvingly. "What do  _you_ think?" he called out to the crowd, who shouted back in the affirmative. "Right then!" Manwë tore through the foil at its top with his teeth and twisted the cork, his strong arms hefting the bottle back and forth as the crowd fell suddenly silent, but for a low, growing roar which built in intensity until exploding with the contents of the bottle, which sprayed across the delirious mass while Manwë laughed maniacally.

"Melkor," he called out, "want a drink?"

"Don-" Melkor didn't have time to get one syllable out before he was hit square in the chest by the jet of liquid, frantically batting his arms as though he could fight it off. The cheers of the crowd became laughter as Manwë finally relented, leaving his brother soaked to the skin.

"I'll pay for the cleaning," he chuckled, sucking his fingers clean. Melkor stared daggers at his brother, overwhelmed by the smell of the sweet, acrid wine now leeched into his clothes.

"You'd better," he replied, summoning a smile with all the effort of a mother digging her child out of a landslide. Manwë downed a sizeable quantity of the remaining wine and handed the bottle back.  _Thank you, Manwë,_ thought Melkor, his serene smile masking a murderous rage,  _for making this that little bit easier._

The crowd dispersed with surprising rapidity as Manwë and the rest of the Valar descended into the Park proper and began to explore the area. From afar the site had been impressive enough, but from ground level it was positively dizzying; amusements and rides had been built from the ground up – with barely a break to breathe from rebuilding the Surveillance tower – shining their neon beacons deep into the encroaching night.

Food stalls steamed and suffused delicious, nostalgic smells of tradition Ain party food into the warm air, while a proffered cup of homebrew was never too far away. And with most of the population having started drinking at dawn, the Valar found themselves inundated with drinks in a bid to "get them up to speed," as one crewmember had slurred. Before anyone knew it, night had fallen, and Ormal glowed strong and cold on the southern horizon.

The party, however, simply kicked into a higher gear, and continued more raucous than ever beneath their illuminations. The Valar, however, for various reasons, had slowly made their ways home; Námo and Vairë, exhausted from the day's celebrations, said their goodbyes early; Irmo and Estë had to return to their hospital duties; Oromë had escorted Vana home with 'a headache', to a knowing wink from all; and Melkor had vanished into a crowd of his Engineering brethren from practically the moment he'd descended, but the others had quickly reconvened, sharing a long table in the main seating area and blending into the background of revelry. Drinks were downed and plates were licked clean, even after the feast they'd had – homesick as they all were, they could always find space for the foods of their childhood.

"I wish Tulkas was here," Aulë wistfully opined during a lull in the conversation, "and Nessa too. They'd be in seventh heaven." Solemn nods passed around the company, with Ulmo leading a toast to their absent friends. They drained their drinks and sighed, momentarily brought down to earth by the remembrance that some of their friends were not so lucky.

"Well, you know what they'd say if they were here," Manwë interjected, leaning across the table. "They'd say, 'why aren't you drinking?'" He laughed, thrusting yet another cup into Aulë's hands, who raised it appreciatively.

Manwë slunk off as the group once more began to laugh and joke, joined by his unimpressed wife. "Why would you say that," she said, "knowing what you know?" Manwë sighed.

"Because they  _don't_ know," he said. "Part of being a leader is to keep people's hopes up, even when there is none. It's a lesson you'll have to learn, you know, when you succeed me as Commander."

Varda froze, assuming she'd misheard. "Succeed you-what?" she said, gripping Manwë's as an impromptu wheelbarrow race nearly barrelled into her. He laughed as he pulled her closer.

"I don't want to do this job forever, I'm already exhausted. Look at Eru; you wouldn't believe he's 27, would you?" Varda snorted, feeling Olórin's homebrew take control of her senses and forget she was supposed to be angry at her husband. "You're much better with people than I am. That's all this game is, you know; people."

"You rotten liar," Varda replied, locking her arm around Manwë's as they strolled along a line of food stalls. "You're just bored of life behind a desk!"

"Well, of course I am!" Manwë replied, gracefully snatching a cup of odd-smelling liquid from a crewman carrying a tray. "I hope you haven't forgotten – I  _was_ a scientist, once!"

"It's like an STD, dear," Varda replied, holding herself close to her husband. "The symptoms are never fully eradicated," she teased him, flicking his nose.

"I miss my old lab," he sighed wistfully, taking a seat by one of the countless roaring fires that dotted the site. "I miss having mastery over the skies, the winds, the very air itself!" he crowed, pulling his wife down to sit in his lap with a squeal.

"You were an atmospheric chemist, dear," Varda replied, ignoring a lewd cry from a squad of drunk crewmen. "I think you might be over-romanticising it a touch."

Manwë smiled that peculiar smile of men who have enjoyed a long-overdue drink. "Still," he said softly. "Give it a couple of years, and then it's your turn. And after that we'll have elections, and the running of the colony will be in the hands of the civilians – in the power of the people. What do you say?"

Varda sighed, her gaze held tight by her husband's calm, blue eyes. She tried to argue, to refuse, but under that stare she could do nothing but love him. She shifted on his lap a little before kissing him forcefully, her long curls spilling out over their faces as their lips touched. Another boorish noise from the drunks nearby encouraged Varda to extend a hand and produce an obscene gesture in their direction, eliciting and even louder cry of puerile amusement.

"I can have them shot, if you like," Manwë mumbled drunkenly as their lips parted. "There's perks to being the boss."

Varda giggled and flicked her hair back over her shoulder before her eye was caught by a strange gathering in the distance, obscured by smoke and silhouetted by bright lights.

"What's going on over there?" She said, leaving Manwë's lap and pulling him along as she went to investigate. A large number of people had gathered in a circle, watching intently and shouting as one at something transpiring in the middle.

"Come on," Manwë called out as he barged people aside, "Move it. Out of the way." His voice caused the crewmen to immediately part and allow their Commander passage to the front, where a surreal battle greeted them.

At the centre of a hastily-constructed ring, Oromë grappled with Mairon in a traditional wrestling hold. Vicious cries of "Get him!" and "The neck! The neck!" filled the air, deafening and pungent with alcohol. Oromë, his mighty arms wrapped around Mairon's slender waist, lifted his opponent with a grunt and slammed him face-first into the dust.

"Well, well," Manwë muttered. "Guess it really  _was_ a headache. No wonder he's got some energy to get out of him."

"They can't do this!" Varda gasped, looking to Manwë for approval, who only shrugged.

"You want to stop them? Be my guest," he chuckled, crossing his arms and watching the fight intently. Mairon pushed himself up from the ground, his chiselled torso darkened all over with patches of dirt where he had fallen to Oromë.

"Oromë for match point," called out a crewman who also seemed to be acting as a tout, pocketing vast reams of notes and slips before starting the final round. Silence fell over the crowd as the two men circled each other, both panting and stripped to the waist. Oromë's muscles were a thing of unparalleled beauty, glistening with sweat as he flexed and took up his stance. Mairon was nowhere near the physical specimen Oromë was, but had a lean wiriness to him that hinted at exceptional speed for a man closer to seven feet than six, and the tight, scarred body of a seasoned fighter.

"Engage!" the referee-cum-bookmaker cried out, and a primal roar exploded as the two men crashed together, immediately battling for supremacy. Hands gripped hands and slick skin slapped together as they seemed to become a single seething mass, with only the occasional flailing arm or turnaround proving otherwise.

Out of nowhere, Mairon broke the lock and sent a vicious boot into Oromë's solar plexus, forcing the bigger man down to one knee while the crowd ground in sympathetic pain. Oromë expertly blocked a flurry of strikes before surging back up and launching his own attack, massive fists swinging wildly. Mairon, however, was faster, and slipped away from Oromë's punches like a fish evading the net. The fight was on, and the crowd called out both men's names as they swung, missed, dodged and blocked. Sensing a gap in his opponent's offense, Mairon let loose with all he had, a devastating blizzard of blows from feet and fists which Oromë did very well to block. It seemed as though Mairon would eventually overwhelm him until, with the craftiness that only an experienced fighter could show, Oromë caught his opponent's leg mid-swing and, using Mairon's momentum against him, rolled him over and crushed him into the ground,. The bout was over, and Oromë rose victorious amid gloats and groans.

Manwë clapped and cheered with the rest of them, the Commander invisible among his men. The referee lifted Oromë's arm in triumph as Mairon picked himself up and swiftly redressed. "Who's next?" the referee called, who seemed to be the compere as well. Shouts rang out, and more than a few unwilling crewmen were pushed forward by joshing colleagues. "Come on, don't be scared!" he called out, taking a swig out of what looked suspiciously like a bottle of methylated spirit. "It's not like any of you can  _really_  get hurt, is it?"

"You know what?" Manwë said to his wife, beginning to unbutton his jacket.

"No!" Varda hissed, slapping his hand away from his buttons. "Don't you  _dare!_ "

"My planet," Manwë replied, pulling his jacket open, "my rules!" He broke away from his wife's grasp and burst into the ring, arms aloft. The cry that erupted was barely human, a shriek of childlike glee at seeing their Commander bare-chested and ready to fight.

"Come on!" Manwë called out to the baying crowd, swinging his arms like a prize-fighter. "Is there no-one? No-one with the balls for a little rumble?" He bellowed over the noise. Varda cringed, shielding her eyes from the spectacle. There was a reason her husband didn't drink often.

"Melkor!" One wag in the crowd shouted out to a peal of laughter. Manwë laughed it off, but the idea quickly gained traction and became a chant, drunken and guttural. Manwë shook his head, waving off the suggestion, but as if on cue the crowd parted to reveal Melkor being shepherded to the ring, geed on by slaps and pushes from the crewmen along the way. Manwë continued shaking his head, even as Melkor began to act his part and cocking his ear questioningly to the throng.  _Fight! Fight! Fight!_ They chanted. The two brothers circled the ring, playing the crowd, and mass hysteria nearly broke out when Melkor began to undress.

Varda, alarmed by the fervour of the crowd, fought her way to the front and called for her husband. "Manwë, don't do this!" she cried out over the hubbub. "This is a  _very_ bad idea!"

"Why not?" Manwë replied, cracking his knuckles as Oromë removed his wrappings and began to apply them to his commanding officer. "Give the people what they want; it's a party!"

"But he might-" Varda stopped herself, remembering Manwë's reaction to her fears the first time around. "You might get hurt." Manwë scoffed.

"The one time Melkor landed a punch on me, he broke a knuckle," he muttered into his wife's ear. "I'll make him look good; I don't want to hurt his feelings. And anyway, like the man said; I'm not really here! I'm asleep in a cave!" he chuckled, tottering auspiciously. "I'll be fine!"

Before Varda could protest further, Manwë had pushed his way through the small gaggle of well-wishers that had gathered around him and into the ring, where cries rang out anew. Melkor, shirtless, was having his wrists taped up by a sore-looking Mairon, engaging him in terse conversation – tactics, Manwë thought, or perhaps a final, desperate plea for him to back out. Ready at last, the two brothers met in the centre of the ring and pressed their left fists together tightly in the traditional pose of respect. Manwë hadn't seen his brother shirtless in quite some time, and was surprised to see that the skinny boy he once knew had filled out, with tight, wiry muscles stretched taught across his chest and belly, and reasonably impressive arms. It might, he thought, be a fairer fight than he had supposed. The referee called for silence, which descended with chilling swiftness, and began his preamble.

"Are the combatants ready?" Both brothers nodded. "Combatants are-"

"Manwë Eredh, son of Meridan," Manwë replied, loud enough for all to hear.

"Melkor Umór, son of Meridan," Melkor followed suit.

"This is a bout of five rounds," the referee continued, "with no time limit. The round is won by forcing your opponent's chest or shoulders to the ground. You  _must_  remain in contact with your opponent at the moment they touch the ground for the fall to count. No eye-gouging, no hair-pulling, no biting, no scratching, no choking and no low blows. Do the combatants understand these rules?"

"I do," both replied simultaneously.

"Part!" The referee ordered, and with a roar the brothers turned and headed to their seconds, Oromë and Mairon. With the raise of a hand the referee silence the crowd once more. Manwë and Melkor stared each other down, motionless.

"Engage!"

The crowd exploded into voice again. The brothers began the round cagily, pacing around the ring, drawing ever-closer like celestial bodies caught in each other's gravity until, after a number of bluff charges, they clashed with Manwë coming out on the offensive. He sent body shots into Melkor's midriff, who rolled with them, gritting his teeth and weathering the storm until he could push his brother away. Immediately he went to ground, hacking at Manwë's legs to try and nullify his height advantage. Rolling side to side to avoid huge stomps, Melkor succeeded in getting behind Manwë, sending a vicious kick to the back of his knee that forced him to kneel. With lightning speed, Melkor grabbed Manwë's trailing arm and dragged him off-balance, pulling him down for the fall.

Elation erupted among the crowd. The script of the bout was most certainly not being followed, and the referee could hardly cope with the surge of new bets. "Melkor takes the fall!" He called out, even as he stuffed notes into his trousers. "One-nothing!"

The brothers returned to their seconds; Melkor to a back-slapping from Mairon, and Manwë to a worried look from Varda. "I let him have that one," he whispered to his wife as Oromë massaged his arm. "It's good for his confidence." Varda's eyes widened comically – as if Melkor need a boost to his confidence.

"But now he thinks he can beat you!" she protested.

"I know", Manwë replied, taking a drink of water. "Should make it fun, shouldn't it?"

"Please," Varda implored him, grabbing his hand. "End this quickly." Manwë stared at his wife, at first annoyed, but eventually relenting.

"Alright," he promised, kissing Varda's hand before trotting back into the ring. Varda frowned as the two adopted fighting poses and began to pace once more.

"Melkor couldn't actually hurt Manwë, could he?" she asked Oromë, who stood eyeballing Mairon across the way, their bout seemingly over in name only.

"Not unless he pulls a gun out of his arse and shoots him," the huge man grunted as the brothers came together again.

Manwë held his brother firmly, who struggled against is powerful arms to no avail. Melkor attempted to throw his weight to one side to spin them and unbalance the hold, but Manwë compensated and kept Melkor locked tightly to him, their chests touching.

"Come on, play to your strengths!" Manwë hissed into Melkor's ear. "You can't beat me on pure strength."

The pair broke and Melkor backed away, resuming his circling. "Thanks for the advice," he said sarcastically, before attempting to get a grip around Manwë's waist. Manwë, however, was too quick, and broke Melkor's hold easily. A few cursory follow-up punches were blocked easily and Manwë sent his brother sprawling with a simple trip.

"You can beat me," Manwë called after his brother as laughs arose from the crowd, "if you know how! Come on!"

Melkor pushed himself up, spitting out dust with a scowl. "Alright then," he growled to himself, launching himself bodily at Manwë, leading with his fist. Manwë dodged the flying punch and Melkor slipped a retaliatory hook, sending a sharp jab to Manwë's flank. As his brother buckled sideways, Melkor dodged the other way and sent another swift hand into Manwë's opposite side. Wising up to the attack, Manwë dropped his guard to his sides and forced Melkor back with a rising knee.

"That's it!" Manwë called out, stretching his aching sides and Melkor paced away. "That's better!"

To everyone's surprise, Melkor immediately rounded on Manwë with an attempted haymaker to the face, which Manwë only just blocked.

"Will you  _stop_ belittling me!" Melkor spat as Manwë backed off. "Are we here to fight or not?"

"Come on, Melkor," Manwë replied, hurt. "It's just a bit of fun."

"That's all it ever was for you, wasn't it," Melkor replied, adopting a fighting pose once more. "A bit of fun, always being the favoured son," he growled as he attacked again.

This time, however, Manwë was ready, and he caught Melkor in a painful lock. "If you want to talk about this," he whispered, "we can do it afterwards; not here, not in front of them. All these people, they look up to us. They look up to  _you_. Don't let them down."

"Fuck yourself," Melkor spat, responding with an attempted elbow to the groin which saw him take a fall for his troubles, Manwë tackling his brother to the ground. The referee raised his arms to signify the end of the round, calling out Manwë's name hurriedly before rushing to ringside to attend to his other job.

"Whatever your problem is," Manwë growled as he pulled his brother to his feet, "get over it, or this is going to a very short fight." Melkor yanked his hand from Manwë's and retreated to Mairon, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders protectively, casting a narrow-eyed glare at Manwë. He stalked back to his corner, seething.

"Little bastard tried to low-blow me," he growled as Oromë once again rubbed his shoulders. "I think he wants this to be an actual fight."

"Do you want my advice, Sir?" Oromë replied. "If he wants a fight, give him one. If he wants to hurt you, he'll find a way to do it – so don't let him."

Manwë nodded tersely, stretching his neck. Across the ring, Mairon stepped aside to reveal Melkor sitting silently, barely breathing, and staring his brother down. The coldness in his eyes, the emptiness of his gaze, pained Manwë in his heart. The bout had started as a show of brotherly solidarity, but now – whether simply by alcohol, or long-suppressed emotion rising to the surface with the rush of adrenaline – it threatened to turn ugly.

Varda burst through the crowd to appear at Manwë's side, peering over him like a guardian angel. "Manwë, stop this,  _right now_ ," she said, her voice low and serious.

"Don't worry," he muttered to his wife without turning to face her, "I'm going to."

The two met in the centre of the ring once more and Melkor immediately raised his dukes, forgoing the show of respect. Manwë narrowed his eyes and adopted his favoured stance, keen to end the fight quickly.

Melkor came out quickly, a swift kick surprising his brother and immediately forcing him on the defensive. Quick jabs to the chest and midriff had Manwë back-tracking desperately, hoping for a break in the attack which he could exploit. In danger of being forced out of the ring entirely, Manwë flung himself forward and overwhelmed Melkor's short reach with his sheer size before grabbing him tightly, locking his hands around his brother's back to hold his arms down.

"Are you drunk?" he hissed into Melkor's ear, holding him tight as he struggled. "Because the Melkor I know wouldn't be trying this hard to hurt his own brother."

" _The Melkor you know_ ," Melkor sneered back. "You don't know the first fucking thing about me, Manwë. You never have. Too busy getting all of father's love and attention," he said, causing his brother to break the hold and push him back violently, sending him head-over-heels multiple times before recovering. Almost immediately he rushed back to the fight, beginning a fresh attack which Manwë blocked easily.

"Father loved you, Melkor," Manwë said through clenched teeth as he pushed Melkor back again, his eyes scanning the crowd, hoping no-one could hear their conversation. "More than you know," he spat, pointing an accusing finger.

"And now he's gone," Melkor said, circling his brother like a snake. "And no sooner had I found someone who loved me, than you had taken her away from me," he growled, taking advantage of Manwë's shock to grab him around the waist and tie up his legs with his own. Manwë locked arms with his brother and bent him backwards to prevent him getting enough momentum to trip him over.

"Varda?" He whispered, incensed. " _Varda?_  You're really angry, still, over that? After all these years? The choice was hers to make, and hers alone, you arrogant little shit!" he rasped as, overwhelmed by anger, he dug his nails into Melkor's flesh.

"Illegal move!" Melkor cried out in full voice, wincing in pain. Manwë was brought back to full consciousness; his anger temporarily countermanded by confusion, the referee moved in and separated them, admonishing him. The audience watched on with tuts and shaking heads, unimpressed by their Commander's cynical fighting. Melkor made a show of stretching out his arms, gingerly testing the wounds.

"I hate to say it, boss, but one more illegal move and Melkor wins the round by default," the referee drunkenly informed Manwë before backing away and signalling them to resume their bout. This time it was Manwë who wasted no time in getting stuck in, charging at Melkor as his back was turned and lifting him bodily, locking him in a bear hug which trapped his arms.

"Fine," he said, squeezing his captive brother until he groaned. "You've always been a dirty fighter. That's fine. But I've always been a  _better_  fighter," he said, tossing Melkor aside as though he were a toy. Melkor tumbled along the ground painfully, skinning elbows and bruising ribs as he rolled. "You can't cheat your way out of everything, Melkor. It's a lesson that's  _long_ overdue, I think," he said as he walked calmly over to where his brother lay wincing.

"You were always so selfish," Melkor said, laughing. Manwë stopped short in surprise. "You had to have her," he continued, sitting up, "so you took her. Just like you couldn't stand father clinging on to life." Manwë's mouth gaped open slowly, frozen to the spot. "I bet you helped him towards the light," Melkor spat, his brow furrowing in hatred. "I've always had my doubts."

Manwë's vision clouded over in a red mist and he descended on his brother with furious fists, pounding him into the ground as the audience recoiled in horror. Melkor made a few decent blocks but for the most part Manwë unloaded on him, breaths ragged and eyes furious. "How dare you," he roared as he closed his hands over Melkor's throat and began to squeeze, "HOW  _DARE YOU_?"

Immediately the referee flew in, followed by their seconds, as pandemonium threatened to erupt. The security officers in the crowd stretched out their arms to prevent the audience spilling out into the ring as Manwë was torn off of Melkor, coughing and shuddering. Somewhere in the tumult the referee announced that Melkor had won the bout by default as he tried to keep Mairon from starting another fight with Oromë. Manwë struggled against Oromë's arms as his lieutenant dragged him back, kicking and screaming obscenities at his brother. Varda, rushing into the ring to reach out to her husband, was scooped up by a burly Security officer who held her tightly around the waist as she shouted and complained.

"Well, fuck this," the referee mumbled, exasperated. "Bout abandoned! All bets are null and vo-"

"NO!" Screamed Manwë, fighting to get free. "Don't you dare! Don't you  _dare_ stop the fight! He wants a fight and he's getting one!"

"Sir, I can't allow-"

"THAT'S AN ORDER!" Manwë roared, red in the face. "DO NOT STOP THIS FIGHT! NOT FOR ANYTHING!"

"Yes!" Melkor shouted back, fighting out of Mairon's grasp. "Don't let him hide, like he hid while he condemned his own people to death!"

Shocked silence fell over the gathering, with even Mairon's impassive face showing a note of surprise. Manwë's fury evaporated into numb surprise, almost slipping from Oromë's grasp as his knees buckled.

"Long, long days have I carried this weight," Melkor said, "But I will no longer be silent. I can no longer praise this man," he addressed the crowd, "nor say his name with a smile on my lips. He sat high and safe in his ivory tower," Melkor continued, pacing the ring, "while the fires burned and he did nothing! Ten people," he shouted, "ten of the twenty who died were killed not by the explosion, but smoke inhalation. It took me ten minutes to reach the tower from the Engineering sector – shuttles from the Royal Palace would have been there in two. Ten lives would have been saved had he ordered his crew into the building, instead of pussy-footing around in his office!"

"The building was a death trap!" Manwë shouted back, finding his feet. "If I had ordered men in, I would have been sending them to their deaths!"

"And how would  _you_ know?" Melkor replied, rounding on his brother. "Where were you? Hiding! Locked up in your office, like Adze on his throne!"

"The Commander," Oromë boomed, "was there on  _my_ orders! My job is to protect the welfare of this colony's Commander, I fulfilled my duty!"

"Your  _Commander_ ," Melkor sneered, "should have ordered you and every man you had to the site of the accident! Had I not taken action, had I not disregarded the chain of command and assumed control of the situation, who knows what kind of disaster we might have had on our hands? And I went," he continued, reaching a feverish pitch, "in the certainty, the absolute  _certainty_ , that I would find my brother there, heeding the call of duty, ready to lead us in saving our friends," he said, letting out a dramatic sob. "Ready to stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, with me, and our people. You betrayed me, Manwë," he hissed. "You betrayed us all. You don't deserve to be our Commander."

Manwë shook free of Oromë's loosening hold and stepped forward to go toe-to-toe with his brother. "You," he sighed, his voice cracking with despair. "You haven't changed, have you? Not a bit," he mumbled, looking down at his brother as though he were a peevish child. "You don't understand the reality of anything beyond the…fantasy you've built in your head. And now, here, of all times, of all places…you hurt me like this? My own brother…"

"I think we've both known for some time, Manwë," Melkor whispered, teeth clenched, "that while we may share a father, that's all we have in common. Fate threw us together, nothing more. You're not my brother," he spat.

Out of the depths of despair, Manwë hit Melkor with a punch so vicious the crowd gasped and turned away, convinced they'd turn back to find Melkor dead. But to everyone's surprise – and none more so than Manwë's – he simply stumbled back slightly, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. With blinding speed he returned a punch that sent Manwë off his feet and flying yards through the air, as if he'd stepped on a mine. With a primal roar Oromë charged at Melkor, but the smaller man sidestepped and threw him into the crowd like he was on wires, sending dozens scattering like bowling pins. In the distance Manwë stirred, blood pouring from his mouth and his vision blurry.

"Whuh-" he muttered, his legs and arms unresponsive and jelly-like. "Huh-"

"It's not nice, is it?" Melkor whispered, his face filling his cloudy vision. "Feeling weak? Feeling second best?" Manwë's breath caught in his throat as Melkor's hand wrapped around it and – as the crowd gasped in horror, lifted his huge half-brother bodily into the air, his weak legs dangling uselessly.

"How-" Manwë rasped, fighting for air, "Not…possible…so…strong?" Beneath him, Melkor smiled angelically.

"You think my  _body_  is doing this to you? You think it ever could?" he laughed, squeezing a little tighter. "My  _mind_ , Manwë," he hissed, "is doing this to you. And it has ALWAYS been your superior!" He roared as he slammed his brother into the ground before kneeling over him and pummelling his face with punch after punch, each one sending a shockwave of disgust through the crowd as the Security officers, huge, brawny men all, felt sudden cowardice at seeing such a small man perform feats of impossible, almost superhuman violence.

"Stop him!" Varda screamed, sobbing. "For Gods' sake, someone stop him!"

Melkor cast a gaze Varda's way, and grinned as he turned Manwë's battered face to his wife. "Just a bit of brotherly bonding," he called out to her. "Long overdue," he muttered, his artificial smile hiding a growl of guttural hatred. Like a child tiring of a toy, he let Manwë's head drop to the floor as the huge man spluttered, coughing blood and teeth out onto the dirt.

"M'sorry," he mumbled, craning his head to see behind him. "Varda…didn't listen…"

 _This was his plan all along,_  Varda thought, struggling against the Security officer's grip as she reached out in vain, arm stretching almost out of its socket to reach her abandoned husband.  _To make Manwë fight him and lose…to humiliate him before having him killed…_

"This man failed you!" Melkor shouted to the silent crowd. "And he has failed you for the last time! For our lost brothers and sisters, I have taken revenge on him! As your new Commander, I will never, ever allow the peace and stability of this city to be threatened, ever again!"

A rustle from behind caught Melkor's attention, and he turned to see Manwë dragging himself up to his knees, his lumpy face bleeding profusely. "You already have, Melkor," he said, his thick lips and missing teeth making him lisp and mumble. "Look at them. Hear their silence." Melkor glanced around at his would-be subjects; frightened, shocked and saddened. A few wept, while many simply covered their mouths in horror. "They fear you. No great man ever ruled by fear. You know nothing of leadership," he groaned, "and you never will. Oromë?" He called out as the huge Lieutenant-Commander emerged from the crowd, stretching his shoulders.

"Yes, Sir?" He replied, standing to attention with a wince of pain.

Manwë swallowed sharply. "Arrest Commander Melkor," he said sadly, casting his gaze to the ground. Oromë's face hardened into a grim mask.

"With pleasure, Sir," he replied, gesturing for two Security officers to aid him. As if remembering their duty, they burst from the crowd and rounded on Melkor, who stood dumb in surprise as they each held an arm tightly. "Commander Melkor," Oromë began as he stomped forward menacingly, "I am placing you under arrest for the crimes of mutiny, and striking a superior officer." Shocked gasps passed around the crowd – both of those charges, if serious enough, merited the death penalty. "Do you have anything to say in your defence before you are taken into confinement?"

Melkor flashed that easy, winning smile of his. "I don't think so," he replied. "NOW!"

Before Oromë could comprehend what was happening, Melkor was gone and the two men in front of him were dead. A volley of shots rang around the ring, and within a second panic had erupted and the population of Arda were rioting. The majority screamed and fled while others strode forward with purpose, brandishing weapons. Mairon's knee caught Oromë deep in the gut and sent the huge man tumbling. As he looked up he saw Melkor's lieutenant sneering above him, pointing two pistols at his face.

"Pathetic," he hissed just before the stampeding crowd barrelled into him and carried him away like a leaf in a breeze, crying his master's name.

"COMMANDER MANWË!" Oromë roared, getting to his feet and battering his way past the stream of screaming revellers, fleeing in all directions at once. Between the scurrying legs he saw bodies on the ground, almost all of them wearing the cream jackets of the Security team, stained wine-red.

"You bastard," he whimpered, a brief moment of sorrow pushing to the front of his emotions before rage consumed him, and his cry boomed across even the screams of the crowd. "MELKOOOOR!"

With the blood of the murdered Security officer who had held her still wet and hot over her face Varda crawled across the ground, rolling and diving to dodge the floods of people pouring past her, threatening to crush her underfoot. "Manwë!" she called out desperately, heading towards the lump on the ground where her husband had knelt. "Oh Gods, don't be dead," she muttered helplessly, "don't be dead, please."

"Varda?" Manwë called back, raising an arm gingerly. Varda got to her feet and ran the last few yards, throwing herself at his side. "So sorry," he whispered, coughing blood over her dress jacket. "Should have listened to you…"

"Please, Manwë, just…I don't want an apology, I just want you to stay alive, do you hear me, you stupid bastard?" She sobbed, cradling her battered husband, washing his wounds with tears. _Guns_ , she thought to herself as she stroked his matted hair.  _The shuttle was carrying guns. This was always going to happen, one way or another._

Sirens rang out for the second time that night. But now, they weren't celebrating the beginning of a new society; they were heralding its end.

**END OF PART TWO**


	19. Part 3: Crescendo - Chapter 19

 

**Part 3: Crescendo**

 

Ormal's light broke, as it had done for the last week, through the thick layer of smoke that seemed trapped in the upper reaches of the sky above Almaren, coming through muddy and unclear and seeming to cast the city in an even darker pall, throwing blotchy shadows upon the ground. The fires had burned unchecked for days while Melkor's army controlled the streets, allowing their notional enemies out of the safety of the Palace only to collect the remains of the dead and search for the missing, and always under the shadow of the gun.

The fighting, in truth, had stopped as swiftly as it had started, with Melkor's forces immediately withdrawing to the safety of the Engineering complex as soon as they had made an appreciable impact – both real and psychological. Oromë had led the invacuation into the Palace at great personal risk, venturing out time and again into the warzone to fetch stragglers and guide them towards the rear entrance he had so recently used himself, mere hours ago, when the idea of civil war was laughable. His hours of sleep since that day could have been counted on one hand.

Manwë, on the other hand, had spent the first three days of the détente unconscious, his and Varda's luxurious bed turned into a makeshift hospital berth. Varda, having dragged her husband through the battlefield that once was the Royal Gardens, had remained awake and by his side until his eyes finally opened once more. With all the medical staff isolated in the hospital building far to the east of the city, and thus no-one to order him to rest, within a day of coming around Manwë had assumed control of the operation to end the conflict, enervated in a way Varda had never seen him before. His first action – after ensuring each and every crew member had been accounted for, dead or alive – was to contact the Iluvátar, his pride appropriately swallowed, and request reinforcements. Captain Eru had unhesitatingly ordered the city-sized ship to make an about-turn and head back to Arda, and their old home was due to enter orbit any hour soon.

"This wasn't your fault," Varda said as she helped Manwë put on his uniform; his arm had been badly broken by Melkor's assault.

"Yes, it was," Manwë replied simply, staring out of the window at his blazing city. "He was so far beneath my suspicion that I refused to see the obvious. Wouldn't listen to the person I trusted most in the world."

"He's your brother," Varda replied softly, easing the sleeve onto Manwë's shattered arm. "You're meant to trust family implicitly. I should have done more to-"

"No," Manwë snapped, turning to face his wife. "Don't you dare blame yourself for any of this. You tried, even when I turned my back on you, to make me see it, even knowing what it could do to our marriage. Telling people the truths they don't want to hear," he smiled sadly, "that's the mark of a true leader."

Varda sniffed, nodding as she began to button Manwë's jacket in silence. "Is that what you're going to tell Captain Eru?"

Manwë shuddered. The inevitable lecture from his superior loomed like a mountain in the distance, impassable and unavoidable; just a punishment to be weathered. It was his insistence, constant and unwavering, which had got Melkor his position on the senior staff of the expedition, and Manwë was under no illusions as to where Eru would apportion the blame.

"Not much to say, is there?" He shrugged. "Oromë filled him in on our military situation – namely, Melkor's armed to the teeth and half our security forces are dead, so we've had better days – so I'm not sure what more I can add, beyond my resignation."

Varda froze, leaving Manwë's top button half-fastened. "You can't," she snapped, hands on hips in indignation. "You were chosen to lead this colony because you were the most capable of us all, you can't abandon your duty just because something went wrong!"

The fire in Varda's eyes warmed Manwë's soul, and despite his misery and pain he found himself smiling. "Of all the things," he said softly, stroking her face with his good hand, "you're telling _me_ about the importance of my duty…the world really has gone mad," he said sadly as his wife nuzzled his hand.

Eonwë rapped at the door and stuck his head around. "The Iluvátar is in orbit, Commander," he whispered, as though saying it aloud would bring down the wrath of the Gods upon their heads. Manwë nodded, feeling knots tightening in his stomach.

"Whatever he has to say," Varda told him as she hurriedly tightened his sash about his shoulder, "just agree with it. Let him get it out of his system."

"I'm not sure I'm going to live that long," Manwë replied cynically. Varda looked at him sternly.

"Be professional," she said. "Admit your responsibilities and offer your help as best you can. Things go wrong," she mumbled, swallowing hard. "And compared to what we left behind, this is _nothing_."

Manwë breathed deeply, unwillingly recalling the last, horrible days of the death of Ain. Warlords and their armies killed and raped in the millions as the last governments crumbled under the weight of their dying planet; entire civilisations, stretching back tens of thousands of years, swallowed up by rising tides and gaping fissures or crushed beneath ice and molten rock.

"I think we can deal with one arsehole with guns," she said through clenched teeth as she held her husband tight. Manwë wrapped strong arms around her shoulders and kissed her head, breathing in her scent to fortify himself.

"Well," he sighed deeply, "shall we?" He linked arms with his wife and the two of them left their dressing-room, immediately flanked by bodyguards and led to the rear courtyard, where Eru's shuttle would be landing, just as it had a week ago, under much happier circumstances.

Oromë stood to attention as Manwë entered the courtyard. Even after a week of ceaseless work with barely a moment's rest, the huge man had made a concerted effort to turn out well for the presence of his Commander-in-Chief, his buttons gleaming and cheeks shaved smooth.

"Commander," he greeted Manwë, who waved his good arm awkwardly. "You're looking much better."

"Lying to a superior officer is an arrestable offense, Oromë," Manwë replied gruffly. In a fit of pique, he'd ordered a huge antique mirror to be taken from his room after he'd seen the extent of his injuries; while barely recognisable then, the swelling in his face had gone down dramatically since, although he was still left with badly bruised eyes and a split lip. Melkor had tested the very limits of their new bodies' hardiness.

"Apologies, Sir," Oromë replied, keeping silent until unmistakable sparks appeared on the horizon some minutes later – shuttles glowing white-hot as they plunged through Arda's atmosphere. Manwë felt Varda's hand tighten around his, warm and reassuring.

"He's here to help," she muttered as the shuttles closed the distance to the courtyard and set down slowly. "He's here because he cares. Remember that."

"While he's beating me to death," Manwë replied, releasing Varda's hand and stepping forward to welcome Eru as his shuttle touched down and opened its doors. The old man descended the steps that unfolded beneath him and Manwë stood to attention with the rest of his household, feet shuffling together as one. Eru made a beeline for Manwë, who stiffened visibly as the Captain came within striking range.

"Captain," Manwë greeted him, eyes fixed forwards. Eru's face strained towards his for a moment, lips moving wordlessly. Manwë braced himself for the explosion. Without warning, Eru embraced Manwë tightly, making the Commander gasp in surprise. As they broke, the old man's eyes glistened with tears.

"That little bastard," he muttered, his teeth clenched in rage. "Gods and Thunder-song, Manwë, I'll make him pay for what he's done, you have my word." Manwë's mouth opened and closed dumbly, unsure of how to respond; his every eventuality had involved, at the very least, being shouted at. At a loss, he ploughed ahead with his prepared words anyway.

"Sir, I accept full responsibility for what has happened, and-"

"Oh, shut up!" Eru interrupted, chiding him like a child. "Melkor is the one responsible, and no-one else. Don't you go blaming yourself in the middle of a crisis, we don't have the time. Understand?" Manwë let out a breath that had been stinging his chest for some minutes.

"Yes, Sir," he breathed, allowing his posture to relax slightly.

"Now, then," Eru continued, more gruffly than before. "You said you wanted reinforcements, hm?"

"That's correct, Sir," Manwë replied. "We're severely outgunned and the Engineering complex is heavily-"

"I know all that," Eru cut him short impatiently, taking Manwë by his good arm and leading him away from the shuttles to stand with Oromë and Varda, who both saluted. "Take a look at these and tell me how much longer you think they'll hold out."

On command, the shuttle behind Eru's flagship disgorged its load; a dozen metal monsters, ten feet tall, jumped one-by-one onto the grass and marched in a cacophony of clanks and clunks to the commanders, lining up two deep before standing to attention. The senior officers and their adjutants stepped back in awe, trying to take in their full majesty. Though they took the form of the suits of armour of old, with gleaming metal covering every surface, veins at their joints pulsed with livid green light, hissing as they moved.

"Archangels," Oromë whispered, enraptured. "I haven't seen one since the War. I didn't realise any had survived."

"These are the last," Eru replied. "I made sure they came with us, should the unthinkable happen."

"Good planning," Manwë muttered, entranced by the unearthly hum and glow of the robotic warriors.

"Sirs," Oromë addressed Captain Eru and Manwë, "I feel we must debrief the Captain and plan our course of action immediately. Time is of the essence."

"Quite right, Commander!" Eru replied, to Oromë's confusion and Varda and Manwë's delighted shock. The Captain continued as he advanced on the huge man. "Come, now. Single-handedly leading an evacuation of civilians under attack from armed insurgents, putting yourself in the line of fire to rescue your comrades? Promotion's the very least we could do," he said, beckoning a crewman to his side bearing a small case. "So it's with great pride,  _Commander_  Oromë," Eru continued as the crewman opened the case to reveal a small, round medal on a velvet lining, "to present you with the Order of the Shield, First Class, for outstanding bravery and unsurpassable devotion to duty in the line of fire." A round of applause broke out as the Captain pinned the medal to Oromë's chest, who gave what many later claimed to be the first smile they'd ever seen him give.

"Don't worry, Manwë," Eru said quietly as the applause died down, "this'll soon be over, and you can get back to running your colony. We both knew it would never be easy," he reassured him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. Manwë nodded.

"I just wish the problems had been a little more…intangible," he replied sullenly. Eru's old face wrinkled with a wide smile.

"Well, 'tangible' problems, as you put it, are my speciality." He gestured at one of the Archangels and ordered it forward; it took two steps forward and slowly took a knee, its joints whirring as the metal plates creaked and re-aligned. "I can't give you an army, Manwë," Eru said as he slipped his arm around Manwë's shoulders. "I can give you something better." The robot's head and shoulders lifted off of its body with a loud hiss and folded backwards, revealing its pilot.

"I can give you  _him_ ," Eru said, gripping Manwë's shoulder.

"I won't lie, Commander," Tulkas said. "I've been looking forward to this."

* * *

Manwë's office had turned into a command centre over the course of the week, with a massive holographic display of the entirety of Almaren dominating the central space. Screens and servers had been wheeled into the office by the dozen, all of them manned by crewmen desperately scanning the city with satellites to try and get as comprehensive a view of the city as possible. Streets turned red one by one as patrols of gunmen were spied in them, plans made and scrapped by the minute. The remaining senior officers, joined by Tulkas and Eru and his retinue, gathered around the display to debrief.

"The most important thing, now we have reinforcements, is that we can finally establish routes of escape for those trapped outside the Palace," Oromë announced, pointing to three glowing buildings on the holographic map. "The hospital, the North quarter, and…" Oromë grimaced as a wave of bad feeling passed around the room. "The Surveillance Tower."

Tulkas watched with a sense of confusion as the gathering solemnly bowed their heads before cold realisation gripped him. "It was him, wasn't it?" he growled, eyes screwed shut in quiet anger. Manwë nodded.

"Only person it could have been. Only way he could have got there so quickly – he was ready for it to happen," he explained. Tulkas seethed, his mighty body quivering.

"How many of our people are still outside the Palace?" Eru asked.

"Sixty," Oromë replied, punching commands into a tablet which caused red dots to appear in the three glowing buildings. "The Surveillance Tower had a skeleton crew of six manning it at the time of the insurrection, nineteen are trapped in the North quarters, including Námo and Vairë…and Vana," he muttered, with the barest tremor in his deep voice. "And there are thirty-five in the hospital building, including the entire medical department – not to mention there were two senior officers among the patients."

Varda's heart ached at the thought of Nienna's panic and suffering as Melkor sprung his trap. Irmo had succeeded in relaying a coded message to the Palace before Melkor had cut its lines of communication indicating the hospital was on lockdown and had suffered no casualties, but had said nothing of Nienna's emotional state. If her reaction to the explosion at Surveillance was anything to go by, then Melkor's betrayal and the mass slaughter of their friends and loved ones must have caused the empath distress on an unimaginable scale.

"How can we be sure any of them are still alive?" Tulkas asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Irmo's intelligence is a week out of date."

"The satellites," Varda replied. "They're showing thirty-five life signs in the building, just the same as last week. She's still alive," she said softly, patting Tulkas' hand.

"What I suggest," Oromë continued anew, "is a coordinated, three-pronged approach on all three targets to overwhelm any resistance and rescue the hostages." He brought up a second layer over the holographic display, indicating the movement of their units. "We know Melkor doesn't have access to the surveillance feeds because he still sends out occasional patrols of gunmen, more likely for reconnaissance than anything else. Their distribution appears to be random, but they're least active around the hour before Ormalrise." Eru and Tulkas grunted their incomprension. "Sunrise," Oromë paraphrased. "With a small team of infantry, we can be in and out before they've even got their boots on."

"It's a bold plan," Eru said, "but a risky one. The hospital is very close to the Engineering section," he explained, gesturing over the map to zoom into the area. "All it would take is one keen eye to spot movement and they could cut us off."

"So send in cover," Tulkas interjected. "One Archangel. It'd be more than enough." Eru sighed softly.

"I know you're desperate to help her, son," he said, "but I don't think we can risk you, not when the enemy are still armed and dug in. We'll need you before this is over."

"Oromë," Ulmo cut in before Tulkas could object, "how likely is it that Melkor's forces could overwhelm an Archangel unit?" Oromë shrugged.

"From within Engineering, they could fend off a single unit," he suggested. "But in the open? They don't have either the firepower or the training to take one on. It would take overwhelming manpower; they'd have to commit their entire force."

"I can't see that happening any time soon," Manwë said, giving Eru a meaningful gaze. The old man smirked.

"If it were anyone else, I'd still say no," he said, eyeing Tulkas, "but I believe you're just about mad enough to pull it off." Tulkas inclined his bald head, feet unconsciously snapping to attention. "The only question left is: how do we deal with Melkor once we have the hostages? How quickly can we get into his compound, and neutralise the threat?"

"That's going to be more difficult," Oromë said, shifting the map's focus to the Engineering sector, "even with the Archangels. This building is almost impenetrable; once it's locked down, it's practically inaccessible from the outside. And even once you get inside, it looks like an assaulter's nightmare; blind corners, bottlenecks. It's almost as if it was designed to be a fortress, not a…"

Oromë trailed off as the penny dropped. A silent groan passed around the company and Manwë's stomach dropped several stories. "Because it  _was_  designed to be a fortress," he mumbled, giving voice to the ugly truth they were all coming to realise. The assault had been months, even years, in the planning.

"All along," Oromë muttered darkly. "From day one. He was always going to do this."

"Then why don't we aim the Iluvátar's cannons at the Engineering sector," a new voice spoke up, drawing all gazes towards it, "and blow that traitorous, treacherous, murdering little shit and all his bastards to Hell?" Aulë's words, rather than rebuke or censure, were met with sympathetic looks and awkward silence. His round, jolly face had dropped day by day until it had hardened into a merciless glare, its warmth stripped away by the betrayal of his former colleague and the murder of his underlings.

Tulkas shrugged and spoke first. "Well…it's not a  _bad_ idea…"

"Out of the question," Eru announced, wresting back control of the room. "Melkor's caused enough death and destruction. I won't spill another drop of Ainur blood on his account, unless it's utterly unavoidable. He is to be taken alive…if that's what the commander of this mission decrees?" He looked questioningly to Manwë, who shot a guilty look to Aulë, his face like thunder.

"Take him alive," he replied, to which Aulë threw up his arms and walked away from the table in quiet fury. "He'll be tried. We have to show him, Aulë!" He called out after the engineer making his way to the door. "We have to prove we're better than him!" But his words fell upon deaf ears as the door slammed shut.

The senior staff coughed and averted their gazes uncomfortably as silence once again re-settled over them. "War is hell," Tulkas grunted.

* * *

Three dozen troops, lightly-armed and kitted for stealth, stood to attention in the courtyard with a deafening stomp as Manwë emerged, bleary-eyed, to see them off. He hadn't slept well again; not only was his broken arm suffering from the bitter chill that had gripped Almaren since the fires had started blocking Ormal's warming rays, but a great sense of dread loomed over him constantly, even moreso now Eru's reinforcements had arrived. It was as if some calamity had been watching them from afar, waiting for a moment to strike, and found its time was now.

Oromë saluted his commander, who nodded briefly. He was in no mood for formalities. "Are we ready?" he asked.

"Just awaiting Tulkas now, Sir," Oromë replied, standing at ease. "He's putting on his suit. I had expected the Captain to be with you, Sir."

Manwë laughed bitterly. "He's back on the Iluvátar, mollifying the Heads of State. Said it was 'my circus'…his exact words," he muttered. Oromë nodded and silence fell over the courtyard again.

"What are our chances, Oromë?" Manwë asked quietly.

"Chances?" Oromë replied, nonplussed. "There's no chance in it, Sir. With ground troops and Archangels, there's no way anyone could hold out-"

"I meant," Manwë interrupted him tersely, casting a wary eye to the troops, "what are our chances of getting through this without further bloodshed?" Oromë looked stern.

"There will be casualties, Sir," he replied. "On both sides. That's the way of things."

"And what about Melkor?" Oromë's face twitched in an odd, strained manner, as though he was keeping an internal explosion in check.

"Your orders are to take him alive," he replied in clipped tones. "I will ensure those orders are carried out to the letter."

"What if he…makes that difficult?" Manwë said. Oromë's puffed chest finally deflated.

"Only you can know if that will happen, Sir," he replied. "But I say this without any qualms; should he bear an imminent threat to the lives or safety of any of our men, he  _will_ be neutralised." Manwë bowed his head deeply, feeling sick to his stomach.

"I understand," he croaked.

The ensuing uncomfortable silence was at length broken by the unmistakable clank and stomp of iron feet, and Manwë and Oromë turned to see Tulkas, piloting an Archangel, striding through the ranks of soldiers to stand at their head and salute the pair of them.

"Reporting for duty, Sir!" He boomed in a harsh, electronic voice as his feet snapped together with a resounding clang. Manwë mustered a smile.

"It's good to see you properly-dressed, Commander," he replied, returning the salute. "I'll turn things over to Commander Oromë," he announced to the gathering, stepping back to allow Oromë to issue their orders.

"Team Aleph!" He barked. The men and women to his left stepped forward in perfect synchronicity. "You're evacuating the Surveillance tower! Team Beth!" The middle group stepped forward. "You're evacuating the Northern quarter – we have vulnerable and possibly injured people in those buildings, so take extra care. Team Gimel!"

"YES, SIR!" Tulkas shouted, back in his element after too long as a civilian.

"Your target is the hospital building. There are thirty-five people trapped in there, including several seriously wounded. All teams are to converge on this location once all hostages are accounted for, living or dead. Clear?"

"SIR, YES, SIR!" the small army shouted back, Tulkas' mechanical voice almost drowning out the thirty-six behind him.

"Move out!"

With speed and near-silence beyond the clatter of feet, the three teams filed out of the courtyard in double-time. "We'll be back in time for breakfast, Sir," Tulkas reassured Manwë, reaching out a huge metal hand to grip his arm, surprisingly tenderly.

"I'll keep something warm for you," Manwë replied as the Archangel rose and strode off, quickly out of sight but its footsteps audible for some seconds more. "How long will they be, do you think?"

Oromë turned and walked back towards the Palace, leaving Manwë to trot behind him. "Without resistance and assuming a smooth evacuation, we've timed Aleph at a little over forty-five minutes," he explained as the two of them passed through the wooden doors and into the marble hallways. "Beth will take a little longer, due to the distance from the Northern quarters and the possibility of some injuries – not least Námo's mobility problems. Seventy, seventy-five minutes, approximately."

"And Gimel?" Manwë asked as crewmen pushed open doors as they marched down the hallway.

"That's where our estimates fail," Oromë replied. "There's no way of telling what shape they're in; transporting seriously wounded takes time anyway, but if any of their wounded have deteroriated in the last week it could take even longer. Going on experience, I'd say that anything under three hours would be a result."

"That's a long time to be so close to Engineering," Manwë muttered as they passed the last set of doors and entered his office.

"Tell me about it," Oromë grumbled. "Sir," he added.

Minutes passed like hours. The senior officers paced the length of the office, lounged in armchairs and couches hurriedly rushed up from the reception rooms downstairs, and watched the holograph obsessively. The key routes remained clear, and the satellites had seen none of Melkor's forces in some hours, but a tense, fraught silence still pervaded the room. Aulë and Yavanna sat together, hands tightly entwined, unable to bear watching the teams' progress. Oromë laid a tender hand on Yavanna's shoulder as Ulmo assumed his watch over the holograph.

"Why blow it up," he muttered, "just to rebuild it again?"

"Saviour complex," Varda replied from the other side of the table. "He needs to be worshipped. He needs to feel like people  _need_ him." Ulmo's lip curled in disgust.

"I never liked him," he said. "He always felt like there was something… _wrong_ about him. But this?" He shook his head, leaning heavily on the table. "How could we not see it coming?"

"Because we didn't want to," Manwë replied softly, gazing out of the window towards the Engineering complex; a huge, sprawling series of buildings with towering walls and mighty bulwarks. A snatch of memory flashed before his eyes – a toy castle he and Melkor would play with as children. Those same walls and towers lined Melkor's new fortress; a childhood dream of kingship turned terrifyingly real. "Normal people…don't do things like this," he said, turning away from the window and walking back to the centre of the room. "They don't build castles. They don't have secret armies. They don't think they have to  _kill_ someone to be better than them," he said bitterly.

The gloom was broken by a crackle of static, followed by a voice. "Team Aleph reporting in, please respond, over."

"Oromë," the Commander responded, waving a huge hand to silence the others. "Report."

"Evacuation successful," came the reply. "Six hostages delivered from the Surveillance tower, entering the courtyard now, over." A small wave of relief went around the room.

"Good work, Aleph," Oromë replied. "Debrief in the command room. Over and out."

"Roger that," the voice on the other end replied before the radio went dead.

"Well, that's some good news, at least," Ulmo said, wrapping an arm around Varda's shoulders.

"We're not there yet," Manwë announced. "Keep watching the screens. If a single one of these streets turns red, we need to know."

Activity around the room increased as their first victory sunk in. Yavanna and Aulë, enervated, took to terminals and helped man satellites and drones on the route between the Palace and Northern quarter. After half an hour, a cheer erupted when Team Beth reported in at the courtyard with all nine hostages accounted for and safe.

"Gimel, come in!" Oromë boomed over the radio as backs were slapped and hands clapped.

"Tulkas here," came the reply.

"What's the situation, Tulkas?"

"We're inside the hospital now," Tulkas replied. "No resistance. I think we've gone unnoticed."

"That's good news, Gimel. Aleph and Beth have returned without casualties."

"Well, we can't break the streak now, can we?"

"No, we can't. Report back in 30 minutes."

"Will do," Tulkas replied. "Over and out."

Oromë replaced the handset and flexed his arms, stretching his back out. He seemed more at ease than anyone could ever remember him being, more loose and fluid in his motions. It put Manwë in mind of having seen him fight Mairon; the huge man, despite his bulk, had been almost balletic in his movements as he sent his opponent crashing to the ground time and again. Perhaps he was, Manwë thought, one of those people who thrived on crisis; who seemed withdrawn and antisocial outside of action simply out of boredom.

A sob from the door shattered the bubble of quiet activity, and Oromë's strong façade crumbled as he saw his wife standing, unkempt and bedraggled, in the doorway. After taking tentative steps forward, Vana eventually burst into a run and leapt into her husband's arms. The two went skidding backwards, Oromë's huge arms holding her tight as the pair embraced and wept silently. "They told me," Vana said at length through tears, "they told me everything you did…you're the greatest, the most wonderful man I've ever…" Oromë said nothing, but buried his face deeper into his wife's bosom, shoulders heaving with relieved sobs.

Varda wiped a tear from her eye, her smile trembling with emotion.  _Love_ , she thought.  _It might just get us through this._ The senior officers gathered around as Vairë and Námo entered, exchanging embraces and handshakes. Námo seemed to have weathered his captivity surprisingly well, seeming no less haggard than he always did. Vairë, however, was a state; a clear streak of grey in her jet-black hair stood out, bright and perfidious, and the smooth skin of her face was greyed with strain. No doubt, Varda thought to herself, the stress of wondering what would happen to her husband without her had taken its toll. It was a fear she knew well.

"Námo," Oromë greeted the seer, his emotions under tight control once more. "It's good to see you well."

"All thanks to you," Námo replied, gripping Oromë's hand tightly.

"I'll debrief you all on the current situation in a moment, but first, I have to know – have you had any visions lately, any at all, which could be of any help to us? Have you seen  _anything_ at all?"

Námo shrugged, almost guiltily. "Nothing concrete," he replied. "Though there was one a couple of weeks back…it wasn't pleasant," he muttered. "The really bad ones usually turn out to be true, somehow."

"Darling," Vairë said, gripping his shoulder, "you know you're under no obligation to talk about your episodes."

"Don't be stupid," Námo snapped. "I'm under  _every_ obligation."

"Well, if you think it would help," Manwë cut in, defusing the awkward situation, "by all means, go ahead." Námo sighed.

"It went… _Blind the eyes, bind the hands, take the head, claim the lands._ " He cleared his throat awkwardly, as if embarrassed to share such poor poetry. The senior officers exchanged glances, but none of them showed signs of an epiphany.

"It was worth a try," Ulmo reassured Námo, patting his back.

* * *

"Ground floor clear."

"First floor clear."

"Ward clear."

The calls came in thick and fast as Tulkas' men completed their sweeps of the building. The lack of enemy presence was always a positive, but something else was bothering him.

"Any sign of the quacks yet?" He muttered into his microphone as he stalked up moss-covered stairs, metal feet muffled by the greenery. The staircase ran front and centre of the building, with huge plates of glass stretching from roof to ground to allow total vision over the city outside. With Ormal's light reaching its peak, even through the thick blanket of smoke it made the windows shine like a pillar of light, casting its beam out across the marble.

"None so far, Sir. You'll be the first to know."

"I'd bloody better," he grumbled as he ducked to get through a set of double-doors several feet too low for him. "And if any-"

A wall of screams sent him almost skittering backwards, his metal head carving a gouge in the ceiling as he straightened up in shock. "Get back!" someone shouted above the chaos. "We are medical professionals! We are protected under the Proclamation of Relf, Articles 5-"

"Shut up!" Tulkas roared, cowing the screamers into silence as he struggled to extract his head from the hole it had made. "I'm here to rescue you, you bloody idiots!"

The voice hesitated. "Is that…Tulkas?" Tulkas eventually succeeded in freeing himself, showering them both with a dust of plaster. Irmo coughed and waved the cloud away before him.

"Good to see you too, Doctor," Tulkas replied, taking a knee and lifting his helmet to show his face. A wave of relieved gasps and sighs escaped the hostages. They looked exhausted, unwashed and overworked, but otherwise in surprisingly good shape. Some of the less injured patients, it seemed, had forced themselves out of bed and volunteered as extra hands, wearing sky-blue scrubs over casts and bandages.

"What are you doing here?" Irmo asked as he shook Tulkas' huge metal hand. "You stayed aboard the Iluvátar."

"Commander Manwë called for reinforcements," Tulkas replied. "Here they are." Irmo raised an eyebrow.

"It's more than just you, right?" Estë said.

"Charming," Tulkas grumbled. "Of course. I've a team of twelve clearing the floors below," he said, before activating his microphone. "Attention all units – I've found the hostages. Intensive Care. All present and accounted for." Acknowledgements rang out in unison as he closed the channel. "There's two hundred infantry and twelve Archangels, plus all the firepower the Iluvátar can muster. Don't worry, ladies," Tulkas boasted, straightening up, "we'll soon have-"

"Doctor Irmo! Doctor Irmo!" A frantic voice from down the corridor cut him short. Double-doors crashed open and a young woman in the uniform of a junior doctor burst into room, skidding to a halt as she spied the huge metal man standing over her colleagues.

"It's okay," Irmo quickly interjected, "it's Lieutenant-Commander Tulkas. The Iluvátar have sent reinforcements." Tulkas inclined his head to the young doctor. "What's the problem?"

"She's crashing," the young Doctor said, unable to take her eyes off of Tulkas in his armour, dwarfing them all. The pause that followed was almost smothering.

" _Who?_ " Irmo pressed her desperately.

"L-Lieutenant Nessa," she said. "She's in tachycardia and unresponsive to defib-"

Irmo and Tulkas dashed past the young woman without warning and barrelled down the hallway, followed by a host of secondary medics. "Where is she?" Tulkas roared. "WHERE IS SHE?"

"Room 12!" Irmo shouted back, pointing to a door before them on the left. Tulkas halted with a crunch of floor tiles as they reached Nessa's room, medics pouring in like they were escaping a blaze. Between the crush of bodies, Tulkas could just about make out Nessa's tiny body, swathed in bandages, lying limp in her hospital bed, her red hair bright and garish against the clinical white.

"Prepare adrenaline-"

"Breathing shallow-"

"Neural response almost zero-"

Medical jargon flew around the room as Tulkas desperately craned his huge head around the door, kneeling in his armour to fit. "What's going on," he mumbled, feeling out of control. "Someone, tell me, what's going on…"

The rapid-fire speech stopped dead as an ominous, unmistakable noise echoed up from the lower levels.

Gunfire.

"Report," Tulkas muttered into his microphone, his voice low and dreadful.

"Contact! Main entrance!" One of his men screamed back. "Multiple enemies!"

"Return fire!" Tulkas roared as the medics snapped back into life and resumed trying to save Nessa's life. " Everyone to the entrance! Keep them away from the hospital!"

"We won't be able to hold them, Sir, they're-" The line went dead with a blood-curdling scream.

"Report," Tulkas replied. "REPORT!"

"They're coming, Sir!" Another voice cried frantically down the channel. "They're coming in over the roofs! We can't hold them!"

Tulkas shook his head in confusion and worry, nonplussed as to what his soldiers could mean. But, slowly, like the first rumbles that brings an avalanche, he looked down to his hands and realised.

* * *

"Aulë, dear," Yavanna called out to her husband, "could you take a look at this?" Aulë kicked his chair over to his wife, rolling across the floor towards her.

"What is it?" He asked.

"What's that?" Yavanna pointed to a wireframe layout of the Engineering complex on her terminal screen. The main building rose three storeys, with basements and sub-basements beneath them.

"That's the central foundry," he said. "Hub of the Engineering sector."

"I know  _that_ ," Yavanna retorted. "I mean, what's  _that?_ " She pointed out to the lowest level of sub-basements.

"Those would be coolant reservoirs," Aulë said. "It'll be flooded, no point going in…through…" Yavanna's eyes widened as she saw her husband realise something was very wrong. "W…why is it so hot?"

The infra-red cameras on the satellites – calibrated by Varda herself – showed the sub-basements glowing red-, almost white-hot. Six separate blocks in the lowest level shone like stars in the turning model.

"What  _exactly_ is down there, Aulë?" Yavanna asked. Her husband shrugged, momentarily lost for words.

"I-I don't know, I never went-I mean, I never needed…" A cold, dark dread fell over him. In a blur of motion, he got up and sprinted to the main holograph table.

"Bring up the plans of the Engineering complex!" He shouted out, barging his way to the front. "Do it!" With a frown, Oromë humoured his brother-in-law. The same wireframe model on Yavanna's screen now floated and spun in front of them all.

"What are we looking for, Aulë?" Manwë asked. Aulë's lips moved frantically in silence as he scanned the layout, looking for a clue only he could see. After some time in silence, he slammed the table in frustration.

"Aulë, let us help," Ulmo asked tenderly.

"No!" Aulë barked, his bulky arms rippling threatening. "It's  _my_ section, I should have known if something was wrong with it!"

At once, Varda realised what Aulë was looking for. "Can we get into Melkor's personal mainframe?" She asked the team.

"I highly doubt he'll have told us how to beat him and let us have access to it," Vana scoffed, unamused.

"I think he has. We just need to know where to look," Varda replied, cryptically. Vana huffed and took the tablet from Oromë.

"What do you need hacking?"

"Melkor designed the Engineering section, right?" All nodded. "So give me the plans – but only the ones from his  _personal_ files."

"You're assuming Melkor's stupid enough to not protect his files from being hacked," Námo interjected, his bushy eyebrows flaring.

"Oh, no," Varda replied. "I'm assuming she's better," she said, nodding to Vana, who smirked.

"I'm not the best," Vana said as her fingers blurred across the tablet's face. "If Nessa was here, she'd have it in seconds. But since she's not…" The wireframe model was replaced with a series of icons, bursting into life one after the other in the space between them all. "Oh, look…slightly more seconds," she shrugged, handing the tablet back to Oromë smartly. At last, he brought up Melkor's personal file for the layout of the complex.

It was staggering in scope and ambition; entire underground networks existed of which Aulë had been utterly ignorant. Tunnels stretched back and forth beneath the surface, linking huge underground silos to each other, and all feeding into the six glowing spots at its very deepest point.

"What  _are_ they?" Ulmo wondered aloud.

"At that heat?" Aulë said, his voice dull with shock and terrified awe. "Forges." A chill passed around the group, who muttered oaths under their breath. Manwë spoke the words they were all thinking.

"What's he making?"

* * *

Tulkas ran back to the staircase, almost falling to one knee as he saw, in terrible clarity, the scene which was unfolding on the ground below.

"Fall back!" he heard his soldiers shout over the hell of gunfire and explosions. "Fall back!" Smoke began to rise, obscuring his view out of the window, but still clear enough to see the reason his men were panicking – and dying.

"Lieutenant-Commander," a small voice behind him said. "We tried, but, Lieutenant Nessa is…she's going to die. Doctor Irmo is taking her to the Tank…it's a long shot, but…"

"Join him," Tulkas growled back. "All of you. Get underground, as deep underground as you can get. That's an order."

"But, Sir-"

"THAT'S AN ORDER!" Tulkas roared, spinning around to face the tiny woman he'd bundled out of the way earlier. Spittle flecked his red beard, yellowed teeth bared and ragged breaths like a dragon of legend.

"Y-yes, Sir," she stammered before running away, terrified.

Tulkas felt the red mist abate somewhat, enough to make him feel shame as she ran for her life away from him. Seething, growling, he welcomed it back as he put his helmet back on and felt his armour encase him completely once more.

The dust outside cleared. In the street before the hospital, far beneath him, an army of Archangels, oil-black and crowned with spikes, closed in.


	20. Part 3: Crescendo - Chapter 20

 

"Shit!" Manwë exclaimed over stunned silence as ripples of gunfire reached the Palace. Some ran to the windows, while others craned their necks to see the first wisps of smoke rising from the east. "What was that?"

"Gimel, come in, what's happening down there?" Oromë ordered over the radio as the atmosphere of complacency that had settled over the command room evaporated in a frenzy of activity. The radio crackled with static. "Gimel?"

"Why aren't they answering?" Námo wondered aloud, his voice cracked with dread. An explosion rattled the windows, sending those who had congregated to fire-watch scuttling backwards as fresh plumes began to rise from the hospital.

"Someone, get us eyes down there!" Oromë boomed over the chaos. "Give me surveillance!"

"I'm trying," Vana replied angrily, flicking between every frequency available until she finally punched her console in frustration. "They're dead! All the feeds, they're dead! That bastard must have taken out the relay!"

"Aulë?" Oromë asked.

"Infra-red coming online," the Engineer replied, already a step ahead of the request. "I've got…" He faltered, lapsing into silence.

"Aulë!" Oromë barked.

"There's-" Aulë blurted, spluttering and stammering, "there's…nothing. No life signs, no heat signatures, it's as if they're firing at…nothing." Another echoing burst of gunfire rattled across the windows, as if in rebuke to Aulë's claims.

The radio sparked into life, transmitting wordless shouts and yells and incomprehensible human voices. Between patches of near-clarity, an ear-splitting whine masked any communication.

"That's a jammer," Oromë growled, fiddling with the dials on the radio console. "They're trying to silence them. Tulkas will know what to do."

* * *

" _All that lives must die. All which grows will weaken."_

_The words brushed past him like chaff on the wind. It was if his head were submerged in water, deaf and blind to all but the wooden box that commanded his attention._

_Poor wood, he thought. Cheap. Barely varnished._

_They deserved better._

" _We, the bearers of this cursed blessing – to stand in life as witness to death…"_

_Only one, of course. Wood – even crap like this – was hard to come by these days, ever since the last great forests were swallowed up in the fires of industry, and the soil salted by its waste. One was cheaper than three, especially if you packed them tight._

_He hadn't done it himself. He couldn't bear to. He'd left that to the undertaker; to use his best judgement. His reassurance that they'd be treated gently was touching. A grain of humanity._

" _The sins and pains of this cruel world no longer trouble them. They sleep, and dream forever."_

_Her hand was tiny in his own, a fragile, freezing thing gripped in strong, yet trembling fingers. He must have been hurting her, a part of his mind realised. Yet she was silent; the harder he clenched, the tighter she squeezed back._

_His heart groaned like the timbers of a ship being blown apart by the wind as they lowered the box, beginning to shovel. He wondered how they lay, snug in their little wooden bed. If he had lain her down and curled them at her side, heads resting on her bosom as though just asleep awhile. If she lay on her side and wrapped her arms around her sons, protecting them forever._

_Before he knew it, the box was hidden from view by a fresh layer of earth, the diggers straightening up and bowing deeply in his direction. A tug from her hand guided him away, down the hill, and back into the choking expanse of the city._

" _You did well," he heard her say, soft and secret like a lover's whisper. He asked for some time to himself and so she left him at his door, catching a last glance of her red hair disappearing into the homogenous brown of the polluted evening. The next time he'd lay eyes on her would be down the barrel of a gun._

"Gimel, this is co-"

A fuzzy voice crackled in Tulkas' ear, yanking him back into the real world.

"-report. Repeat, this is command, com-"

Tulkas opened a flap on his armoured forearm and numbly increased his radio's frequency setting, cutting out the squealing interference. "This is Tulkas," he replied. His own voice sounded strange and distant, as though he were awaking from a dream.

"Talk to me, Tulkas," Oromë growled. "What's happening?"

"We're under attack," he mumbled. A hiss of frustration whistled down the wire between them.

"A bit more detail than that, Tulkas."

"They've got armour."

The silence on the other end of the line was total. "How much armour are we talking about?" Oromë, at length, muttered.

"Looks like…twenty, maybe thirty Archangels." A gasp of shock fizzled in his ear as the entire senior staff buckled in despair.

"Tell us what you see, Tulkas, we're blind up here," Oromë asked, his voice strained with desperation. Varda's eyes flickered upwards, locking with Manwë's.

"Hold on," Tulkas grunted as he hefted his armour down the stairwell, taking up position beside the window that ran the length of the spire. "Yeah, about twenty or so," he reported, snatching glimpses of the enemy's formation from the corner of his eye. "They're not your usual hardware, either, they're different."

"How so?"

"They look like they've been built by a teenager in his grumpy phase, all black and spikes. Look a bit heftier than a regular Archangel, too; they move a bit slower." Oromë conferred inaudibly with the staff before returning.

"That might explain why we can't see them," he replied. "Aulë thinks they might be carrying electromagnetic shielding. What are they doing?"

"Making their way up the road," Tulkas reported, "clearing the side streets. I ordered my guys out front to retreat back inside."

"What about the medics? Are they okay?"

"They're all fine," Tulkas replied, ignoring the grief and rage broiling in his stomach. "I ordered them into the Tank, it's the safest place for them. I think this place is pretty well defendable, but we're going to need reinforcements to effect an extraction. Something to tie them up, to draw them off. Make sure they're packing the heavy stuff."

"I'm sending four teams over to you now," Oromë replied to a bustle of activity around him, "plus air support. That should drive a wedge between them, no?"

"Affirmative," Tulkas replied, cutting his response short to whip his head back from the window as a round smashed into the stone beside him. His team's response roared back from the hospital entrance. "They're knocking!" He shouted as Melkor's Archangels opened fire on the hospital, sending high-calibre rounds slamming into its pristine marble facia. "Get those birds in the air!"

"They're on their way, Tulkas!" Oromë replied. "Give us half an hour!"

"You'll be lucky if there's any left by then," Tulkas growled to himself, watching as a gun barrel rose and extended from his forearm, before smashing the plate glass with his elbow and opening fire.

* * *

The Palace had descended into martial chaos, with teams of infantry reduced to kitting up in the corridors as the scale of the mobilisation became apparent. In the courtyard, four Archangels were given last-minute tune-ups as their pilots were hoisted inside. Oromë wandered this way and that, taking stock of their forces and planning the attack in his head, running through the thousand variables which only an old soldier knew how to count. The radio headset at his ear blared constantly with chatter between the members of Team Gimel, painting him a picture of how the battle was progressing.

"Oromë!" Manwë called, parting jogging soldiers with his sheer presence as Varda followed in his wake. The huge man turned slowly, as though weighed down by the sheer scale of the task he'd taken on. "Don't Melkor's tactics strike you as strange?"

"Commander, I've come to assume that everything that man does is strange," he replied.

"You know what I mean," Manwë replied. "Why is he attacking a small patrol in such force, knowing we'd respond in kind? And why are they so keen on pinning Tulkas' squad down instead of wiping them out?"

"You tell me, Commander," he grunted as he carried out his checks and plans.

"It was Námo," Varda explained. "He said it. Well… _you_ said it, really, just a minute ago. 'We're blind'."

"Yes, we are," Oromë replied grumpily, field-stripping a rifle and passing it to a soldier before picking up another. "How does that help us?"

"' _Blind the eyes, bind the hands'_?" Varda quoted. Oromë, to her consternation, only shrugged.

"Where did Melkor strike us first?" Manwë interjected

Oromë slammed the half-stripped rifle down on a bureau, making Varda flinch. "Here," he replied, his patience unravelling. "Right here, right at the heart of all we hold dear. And if I may speak freely, Sir, why do you ask? Why do you think it matters in the slightest?"

"Not here," Varda replied, her entire body tensing as Oromë and Manwë faced up like madmen, both of them threatening to snap under the pressure. "Before that. The Surveillance tower. He caused that."

Oromë sighed deeply. "And?"

"And then he killed most of the Security team. He blinded us, just to show that he could do it – and then he made it impossible for us to strike back."

Oromë nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I understand what you're getting at, but where's this all leading?"

"The next line," Varda replied, feeling her mouth go dry. " _'Take the head'_. What do you think that means?"

Oromë regarded Manwë. "I expect it means he'll try to kill the Commander again," he replied drily. "I'd like to see him get through  _these_ walls."

"He won't kill me here, Oromë," Manwë hissed, drawing close to his officer. "He'll kill me where I'm defenceless." Oromë's brow furrowed in confusion, before the full picture exploded within his head, sending him stumbling backwards in panic.

"He's going for the Tank," he muttered, grasping for his headset. "Code Red! Code Red!" He barked, his voice booming out across the Palace from every speaker and radio. "Mobilise all infantry, all armour, get every shuttle in the air! Melkor is attempting to seize control of the Tank!"

The chaos that had surrounded them until now seemed serene next to the mayhem that erupted at Oromë's order. Soldiers marched double-time and threw themselves into the waiting shuttles, packing themselves in far beyond capacity in their eagerness to get into the fray. The Archangel carrier hovered noisily over the courtyard as engineers hooked dangling cables to their shoulders, hoisting them up like puppets on strings. Amid the noise and fury, Oromë opened one of the dozens of cases that lined the corridor and pulled out a huge assault rifle, locking and loading it.

"Commander," he addressed Manwë, "permission to lead the assault."

Manwë smiled sadly. "Just come back alive, mate," he said, grasping Oromë's shoulder tightly. With a tiny smile, the Security chief turned on his heels and ran out into the courtyard, organising the massing soldiers with a thunderous shout.

"I know it's selfish," Varda muttered, "when so many of these men and women are going to die, but…can he be okay, please? I just want him to come back."

Manwë smiled slowly as Oromë boarded a packed shuttle, hung out of the door with his rifle in his hand and raised it in salute to his Commander. "I genuinely believe," he muttered as the shuttle sped off with Oromë still hanging from the door, rifle raised and ready to engage before they even landed, "that that man doesn't know how to die."

* * *

"Come on, you pansies!" Tulkas roared from the shattered window, firing slugs into anything which moved. "Go get another twenty of you and make it a fair fight!"

From his elevated position, Tulkas had managed to stop Melkor's advance in its tracks with his heavy ordnance, reducing the enemy Archangels to firing blind. Four of the sharp, black armoured suits lay prone on the dusty marble road, with the rest scattered to the side streets, taking cover from the madman above.

"Tulkas? Tulkas, come in!" Oromë crackled in his ear.

"Tulkas here," he responded as he primed a grenade and used his HUD to calculate his trajectory. "Hurry up, Commander, or you won't get dessert!" His metal arm curved in a vicious arc as he launched the grenade towards a side street, sending a few eagle-eyed pilots scattering but catching two slower ones in a devastating concussion wave which drove them both through a wall.

"Tulkas, we're coming in hot," Oromë said. "Hitting them with everything we have. Melkor is attempting to take control of the Tank – we have to stop him, right here. If a single one of those Archangels gets past you-"

"Hah!" Tulkas roared. "None of them have got within fifty yards of the entrance, bunch of bloody amateurs. Just 'cause you're in a knock-off Archangel doesn't mean you know how to use it. If this is all Melkor has, then…"

A sudden change in formation caught Tulkas' eye. The enemy armour abandoned their cover and formed a solid line across the road, creating an impenetrable wall of black metal. "Stand by," he muttered into his headset, falling to his belly and scrutinising the situation. "What are you-" he whispered to himself, cut off by a sudden rumbling. He watched in horror as, from a side street in front of the enemy's line, two massive, black mechs, twice the height and width of any Archangel, lumbered into view.

"Oromë," he said, "pedal faster."

One of the huge black hulks strode forward, its steps echoing like thunder, and spoke in a deep, metallic voice.

" _SURRENDER_ ," it blared, " _AND YOU WILL BE SPARED. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT. WE WILL TAKE CONTROL OF THE HOSPITAL, AND THE FACILITY BENEATH IT. RESISTANCE WILL BE MET WITH ANNIHILATION."_

"Melkor, you little shit," Tulkas whispered, reaching behind him to retrieve two parts of a weapon from beneath each thigh panel. "I'd know that snotty tone of yours anywhere. You just keep talking, mate," he breathed as he slid the parts together, fusing automatically with a whirr of electronics, and mounted it onto his arm. His HUD did most of the work for him, guiding his arm with the microscopic tug of servos as he took aim. "Nice armour you've got there," he muttered. "Be a shame if something…happened to it." He grimaced as he opened fire, sending a huge, armour-piercing round straight towards Melkor's left knee.

"Oh," Tulkas muttered as it bounced off, "shit." Melkor spun to face exactly where Tulkas was lying, before raising a cannon-like arm. "Oh,  _shit!_ "

* * *

"Oh, shit!"

The shuttle wobbled auspiciously as the report of the explosion hit them, buffeting them from side to side.

"What the-"

"-kind of bang are they packing-"

"-are we dropping into?"

"Soldiers!" Oromë shouted, silencing all dissent. "Sharpen up and prepare to engage Archangels! Equip your heaviest ordnance and be prepared to fight the moment we touch down!" A cacophony of clicks and snaps filled the hold as the soldiers checked their ammo and readied their weapons one last time.

"Archangels down," a voice buzzed over the radio. Oromë stuck his head out of the door to see their armour touching ground and sprinting towards the enemy line, which struggled to turn quick enough to engage the new combatants. Smoke bombs exploded yards from Melkor's forces, turning their deployment into a confused mess. Archangels opened fire into the smoke, taking down armour left and right. As the battle began proper, Oromë's shuttle touched down on an adjacent roof.

"Go! Go! Go!" He shouted, throwing soldiers out one by one, taking up positions at the roof's edge and immediately opening fire on the dazed and outmatched Archangels. From rooftops all along the street the boom of heavy ammunition rang out, and the clank and scrape of shearing metal rose up from their killbox like dying screams.

"THE BIG ONES!" Oromë screamed over the noise. "TARGET THE BIG ONES! TAKE THEM DOWN!"

As their Archangels charged into the last remaining rank of Melkor's forces and engaged them in hand-to-hand combat, Oromë's infantry took aim at the twin behemoths heading for the hospital and opened fire. A wall of fiery metal smashed into both, barely even breaking their stride. The one taking up the rear turned slowly and raised its arm, bringing it down with a sickening crash onto the squad nearest it, totalling the building they stood on.

"NO!" Oromë roared as stone and body parts flew through the air, coating them all in dust and blood. "FIRE EVERYTHING!"

Yet more bullets rang out, followed by the hiss and whine of rockets, as yet another salvo hit the slow, trudging mechs on their irresistible advance. It fared better than the last, with the rockets knocking the rear guard off its stride and causing it to stumble, reaching out to hold onto a building.

"Where's the mortar?" Oromë called out over the radio. "Someone set up that mortar!" Recovering with worrying speed, the remaining behemoth swung around and sent three soldiers flying through the air with a vicious back-hand, scattering them like a house of cards. The remnants of the squad broke, fleeing the rooftop as their shuttle took to the air, buzzing around the huge mech like a fly and firing high-calibre bullets from its nose turret. Shielding its head with a huge hand, the mech tried in vain to catch the nimble craft as other shuttles took to the air and headed for its brother, failing to cease its stride even with a hellacious burst of heavy gunfire.

Oromë could only watch as the lead mech stopped in its tracks, before spinning with devastating speed to strike all of the shuttles surrounding it with some kind of blade extended from its forearm. Immediately the shuttles began to falter, and within seconds dropped to the ground in flames. Oromë fell to his knees as he watched the mech nonchalantly turn back around and begin to scale the front of the hospital, burying its fingers and feet into the marble, stretching up to reach the hole it had blown just minutes before.

"Archangels," he called out over his headset, "report."

"Heavy fighting, Sir," one replied, her voice strained with effort and pain. "They don't know what they're doing but their armour is hard as coffin nails, we're tied up!"

"Where's the mortar?" He asked, increasingly desperate.

"It's on-" His adjutant's reply was cut short by an explosion, and all watched in horror as the last shuttle fell twirling to the ground, smashing into the pavement before them.

"It…was on that shuttle, Sir," Oromë's adjutant mumbled. The battle-scarred mech scanned the remaining fighters, its head cocked almost dismissively. Oromë's rage boiled over as he realised who he was facing.

"Tulkas," he said over his radio as he and the mech stared each other down, "Melkor's on his way to you. Stop him, whatever it takes. I'm taking the other one." He tore off his headset and grabbed a rappel line, tying it around his waist.

"Sir?" Oromë's adjutant asked him. "What are your orders, Sir?"

"Cover me," he grunted in reply before throwing himself off the side of the building.

* * *

Tulkas groaned and opened his eyes, squinting into the bright green glare of his HUD. "Report," he mumbled, tasting blood in his mouth. A mellifluous female voice replied.

" _You are under approximately 56 centimetres of rubble. You have been unconscious for four minutes and twenty-two seconds. Immediately prior to your unconsciousness, there was an explosion-"_

"Yes, yes, alright!" Tulkas silenced his onboard computer, straining his muscles to force his armour out of its cocoon, wiping ash and dust from his visual interface. He was at least forty feet from where he'd been making his stand, with an almost comical series of perfectly Archangel-shaped holes through the half-dozen internal walls that had stood behind him.

"Sea-sluts," he swore, impressed. He pulled himself out from beneath a heavy support strut blocking his legs and stretched out his muscles, feeling his age. A memory of a lost conversation tickled at the front of his mind. "Replay last transmission."

 _Tulkas,_ Oromë's voice filled his head,  _Melkor's on his way to you. Stop him, whatever it takes. I'm taking the other one._

As he listened, a massive metal hand thrust through the hole in the front of the building where Tulkas had once stood, hauling Melkor up and into the hospital. Tulkas instinctively took cover and began to cycle through his available weapons.

_SEMI-AUTOMATIC: DEPLETED_

_HIGH-CALIBRE: DEPLETED_

_ARMOUR-PIERCING: DEPLETED_

"Oh, for fuck's sake, not now!" Tulkas whispered desperately as one by one his every possible option abandoned him until only one remained.

_FLARE: READY_

Tulkas sighed and stretched his neck to see Melkor fully through the hole, setting his feet down on the stairwell where he had stood. His armour was massive beyond measure, almost casting the entire floor in darkness in his shade. He began to trudge up the stairs, cracking beneath his weight, up to the ward level where Tulkas was hiding. He had one shot, and he had to take it now.

With a stretch of his arm he sent the flare screaming towards Melkor and immediately leapt from cover, charging him down with a bloodthirsty roar. Melkor, blinded by the bright light and smoke, couldn't react in time, and Tulkas threw his entire weight into his opponent, sending them both toppling down the centre of the stairwell. Tulkas smashed at Melkor's visual interface with the fury of a man fighting for more than just his own life, screaming and cursing with every blow before they crashed into the lower level fountain in a twisted heap of groaning metal.

Tulkas pushed himself up, screaming at his remaining men to scatter and seek cover as he slid a long, vicious blade from his right forearm and drove it down into the gap between torso and hood, stabbing and hacking while Melkor bucked and swiped at him. But the gap was too narrow, and Melkor's armour too thick, and eventually Tulkas was thrown off unceremoniously. As both regained their feet Melkor's metallic voice filled the cavernous space.

" _TULKAS,_ " Melkor acknowledged his opponent. " _I ALWAYS LIKED YOU. I HAVE NO DESIRE TO SEE YOU HARMED. BUT YOU CANNOT WIN,"_ he boasted. _"YOUR ARMOUR IS OBSOLETE. STAND ASIDE AND I WILL LET YOU LIVE."_

Tulkas laughed, long and loud. "Why bother asking?" He said. "You know what my response will be."

Melkor's trademark sneer echoed off the ruined marble that surrounded them. " _QUITE RIGHT,_ " he said, extending his own blade. " _TO KILL YOU WILL BE AN HONOUR._ "

The pair charged and Tulkas deftly slid beneath Melkor's clumsy swing, hacking at his exposed ankle as he passed. The larger mech was slow on the turn, and Tulkas used it to his advantage as he leapt up onto Melkor's back, stabbing venomously at the panels on his armour. Melkor spun and swiped wildly, unable to reach far back enough to grab Tulkas, who succeeded in fully removing one panel and exposing the wiring beneath. In desperation, Melkor leapt backwards into the wall and crushed Tulkas between it and his mass, driving the wind out of the old soldier.

Upon seeing their commanding officer downed, Tulkas' men emerged from cover and opened fire on Melkor. Their bullets did nothing against his armour, but provided just the distraction Tulkas needed to recover while he scurried beneath Melkor on all fours and began prising off the protective panels on his lower legs. Clinging to his leg like a drowning man to a log, Tulkas shrugged off kicks and blows as he tore harder and harder at the sheet metal, his mechanical fingers whirring desperately as they ripped it from the frame beneath. As the metal came away, Melkor kicked his leg outwards as hard as he could, flinging Tulkas like a ball towards the goal to smash painfully against a pillar.

"THE LEG!" Tulkas shouted over the radio. "Aim for the leg!" As one, Tulkas' men aimed their rifles at Melkor's exposed machinery and opened fire. A lucky round severed a fuel line, sending a foul-smelling liquid spewing over the floor and aerosolising immediately.

 _Warning,_ Tulkas' HUD blared.  _Toxic vapours in immediate vicinity. Cannot guarantee safety._ "Out!" Tulkas ordered his men as Melkor desperately clutched his bleeding mechanical leg. "This area's no longer safe!"

"But, Sir-" one of his soldiers replied.

"That's an order, soldier!" Tulkas shouted back as his men began to don respirators. "Fall back to the entrance to the Tank, defend it with your lives – you hear me?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" The soldiers replied as one, giving a brief salute before speeding off into the dark recesses of the hospital, leaving Tulkas alone with his crippled foe.

" _YOU THINK THIS CHANGES ANYTHING?_ " Melkor growled. " _YOU NEEDED TEN MEN TO MAKE A DENT ON THIS ARMOUR. HOW WELL DO-"_ Melkor's boast was cut short as he stumbled, his left leg whining in protest as it leaked its precious fuel.

"You might know how to fight," Tulkas retorted, backing into the shadows of the hospital's lower level, "but you don't know how to hunt."

Melkor's metallic laughter echoed throughout the shell of the hospital. " _WHY WOULD I NEED TO HUNT,"_ he said, " _WHEN I CAN OBLITERATE YOU WITH A WAVE OF MY…HAND?"_ Melkor grunted as he brought his huge cannon-arm up to aim it at Tulkas, but without a good leg he was unable to keep it steady and eventually collapsed. Tulkas backed away coolly, retreating into the darkness.

"Good luck," he muttered darkly as he disappeared, followed at length by Melkor's limping, scraping steps.

* * *

Oromë reached ground level and unhooked his rappel rope, taking cover behind the downed shuttle as his men opened fire on the last remaining mech, knocking it off-balance and forcing it to go on the defensive. As the stricken hulk lurched, Oromë ducked into the ruined shuttle and checked for signs of life in either of the pilots; both were dead. Biting his tongue, he forced his way back into the hold and started sifting through the wreckage until he found what he was looking for; a large, sheer black box with serious-looking letters embossed into it:  _SPA-300 NITRO-HEX MORTAR_. Oromë popped his head out of the gaping shuttle door to see the mech still struggling to assert dominance over the hundreds of soldiers swarming around it, batting at them ineffectually like a horse swiping its tail at flies.

With its attention divided, Oromë ran clear of the wreckage and began setting up the mortar as quickly as he could, lips dumbly repeating the steps ingrained in his head as a cadet. An explosion nearby made him flinch as rock rained down on him; the mech had taken a blind shot with its cannon, scattering his men and taking the roof off of a nearby building. Lugging the heavy mortar under his arm, Oromë struggled to cover, kneeling again behind the downed shuttled as the mech fired wildly with heavy ammunition, blocking his ears to the cries of the soldiers caught in its wake. Smashes and crashes preceded curtailed screams as metal arms and feet crushed anything it could reach.

Rage boiled over in Oromë, and with the mortar only half-prepped he strode out into the street and bellowed.

"MAIRON!"

Mairon stopped half-way through punching a building to the ground and turned, like a predator caught at its feast by scavengers. A strange, strangled noise grated out of his armour, setting Oromë's teeth on edge. Laughter, he slowly realised.

" _YOU ALONE WOULD STOP ME?"_  Mairon mocked him. " _AN ARMY HAS FAILED!_ "

Oromë swung the mortar out from behind him and fired, hitting Mairon's armour directly in the midriff. The huge mech tumbled backwards, hitting the ground with a crash which demolished half a building. As Mairon struggled to right himself Oromë reloaded the mortar and fired again, this time hitting his shoulder with a blast that stripped away the metal from the skeleton beneath, exposing wires and pistons and leaking fuel.

Oromë stalked forward, loading the mortar as he went and firing from the hip. Each successive blast stripped Mairon's armour further and further away until it was left a burning, twitching metal carcass, his one remaining arm stretching in vain to claw himself away from Oromë's irresistible advance. In desperation, Mairon abandoned his armour, flinging himself out of the cockpit as he ejected the hood, gambling it would hit Oromë. But as he pushed himself out of the dirt, he looked up to see the muddy evening light blocked by a massive silhouette.

"I surrender," he said quickly, getting to his knees and stretching out his hands. "In exchange for my safety, I-"

Mairon's plea was cut short with a brutal haymaker, sending him back to the ground where blood and dust filled his mouth.

* * *

Through the darkness of the lower reaches of the hospital, the screech of Melkor's malfunctioning left leg, dragging behind him as he stalked, pierced air, stone, and shadow.

" _THIS IS STUPID, OLD MAN,_ " he called out, his harsh, amplified voice carrying a trace of his characteristic honey. " _WE'RE WASTING EACH OTHER'S TIME. JUST RUN ALONG AND TELL THEM I BEAT YOU. I'LL EVEN GIVE YOU A SCAR TO HELP YOU ALONG, WHAT DO YOU SAY?_ "

Tulkas sat crouched in a corner, acclimatising himself to the dark and still. Even without his HUD helping him, he knew exactly where Melkor was, and where he was going; a lifetime of warfare, both conventional and not so much, had tuned his senses for the hunt and escape.

" _HOW DO YOU THINK IT'S GOING OUT THERE?_ " Melkor continued, ducking under a half-collapsed beam to enter a ruined office. " _YOU SAW THEM, DIDN'T YOU? MY ARMY. THE FIRST OF MANY. THEIR ARMOUR IS SUPERIOR TO YOURS IN EVERY RESPECT._ "

Melkor spun around violently as a slow laugh floated through the still and dusty air. "Superior," Tulkas muttered, his voice echoing off the walls and floors and pillars that littered the level. "No chance. I dealt with brass like you back on Ain," he said, creeping slowly around as Melkor searched for him. "All they wanted was firepower. They wanted a suit that an idiot could operate, so they could force any old grunt into one. But it doesn't work like that," he cooed, dashing across the corridor behind Melkor.

Melkor turned again and fired an explosive shell towards where Tulkas had been, but hit nothing. The explosion only further stirred up the dust and obscured Tulkas' path. "It doesn't feel like you thought it would, does it? Where's all that strength, all that speed you promised yourself?"

" _YOU'VE SEEN MY STRENGTH,_ " Melkor retorted, a vicious bite entering his speech. " _AND MY SPEED!_ "

"Please," Tulkas spat back, disappearing once more into the black depths of the ruined offices. "You haven't landed a blow on me since we started fighting; or had you forgotten?" Silence stretched out between them as Melkor's breaths became ragged with frustration. "You've got to  _feel_  it, Melkor," Tulkas hissed, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once. "You've got to let the machine become a part of you. Wear it like a second skin. Forget your body and let the armour become yours."

" _WHAT KIND OF SOLDIER,_ " Melkor snapped, " _GIVES HIS ENEMY TIPS?_ "

"What kind of idiot doesn't realise he's already beaten?" Tulkas shot back. "You've only got one working leg, you're losing fuel, and one more shot could bring this entire building down. The only way you could have beaten me was by walking away."

" _ONE SHOT?_ " Melkor mused out loud. " _MY ARMOUR IS FIFTY-CENTIMETRE-THICK POLYSTEEL. I THINK I'LL TAKE MY CHANCES-_ "

Melkor's extended left arm was suddenly grabbed by strong metal hands and twisted sharply, groaning in a cacophony of broken servos and leaking fuel lines. As he swung with his right he spun, out of control, unbalanced by his useless left leg. Tulkas shimmied up Melkor's back like a rat and, with a flash of harsh blue light, began cutting into the join between torso and hood. Melkor's right arm flailed helplessly, unable to reach Tulkas on his back, and his left leg was too badly damaged to allow him to shake him off. Tulkas grit his teeth and growled as he cut deeper and deeper into Melkor's armour, sparks flying in every direction and the hiss of melting metal deafening.

With one last supreme effort, Melkor leapt into the air on his one good leg, slamming Tulkas' head into the ceiling with an almighty crash. Dazed, Tulkas fell from Melkor's back and slumped onto the ground, his attempt to get up halted by the crushing weight of Melkor's foot on his chest.

" _IDIOT,_ " Melkor hissed, his voice sore and throaty with rage. " _ALL YOUR TALK OF 'THE HUNT'; ALL THAT NOBLE BULLSHIT ABOUT 'KNOWING THE MACHINE'. WELL, WHAT NOW? WHAT DO YOU DO NOW?_ "

Tulkas gasped as thousands of pounds of pressure began to slowly crush his chest, pressing him down so hard he felt the tiles give way and crack. In desperation he clawed and scraped at Melkor's ankles, feeling for something he could rip or break, his ribs beginning to groan as the metal of his armour began to crumple.

" _PATHETIC,_ " Melkor sneered. " _A LEGEND LIKE YOU, LITERALLY CRUSHED UNDERFOOT. WHAT A MISERABLE END. AT LEAST YOU KNOW HOW THEY FELT, NOW. HELPLESS, ALONE, GASPING FOR ONE LAST BREATH. WHAT WAS IT LIKE TO WATCH YOUR CHILDREN DIE, TULKAS?"_

Tears pricked Tulkas' eyes as he summoned up all his strength to take a deep, lung-bursting breath, hacking desperately at Melkor's ankle with his forearm blade. But it was no use; his armour was too strong.

" _GOODBYE, TULKAS,_ " Melkor said, almost softly. " _IT'S JUST A SHAME I WON'T GET TO TELL YOUR LITTLE FRIEND WHAT LITTLE FIGHT YOU PUT UP BEFORE-"_

Melkor suddenly let out a strangled, agonised scream, lifting his leg from Tulkas' chest sharply. Tulkas, coughing his heart up, desperately kicked away from his opponent as his limbs whirred and flailed madly, sparks flying from exposed servos and gears grinding themselves into dust before finally crashing to the ground like a felled tree, limbs stiff and immobile. As he lay on his back, wheezing with pain, Tulkas broadcast a message.

"Melkor…down," he groaned, breathing heavily. "Medic…respirator gear…site unsafe…over." With a loud moan, he forced himself to sit upright . Despite his pain, he instinctively raised his empty gun at a figure moving across the armour, until a flash of red out of the darkness took his breath away.

A short, slender young woman clambered down from Melkor's dead mech, wiping oily hands on her pristine uniform. She dropped the smoking defibrillator paddle she'd been absent-mindedly carrying and rushed to Tulkas' side.

"The words you're looking for," Nessa whispered, her smile trembling with incipit tears, "are 'thank you'. I don't come back from the dead for anyone, you know."

Tulkas sat, dumbstruck, barely able to press the hood release catch at his neck to reveal his bloody, bruised face. "How," he gasped, his heart thundering like artillery fire.

"Irmo's gamble paid off," Nessa replied, laughing without knowing why. "The Tank worked."

Tulkas scoffed weakly, his head spinning with pain and shock. "I owe him a drink." Nessa smiled and rubbed her thumb along a livid, bleeding cut on Tulkas' forehead.

"How long until the medics arrive?" Tulkas shrugged.

"A couple of minutes," he mumbled. Nessa nodded, eyes flickering to the gaping hole in the front of the hospital.

"Long enough," she muttered, leaping atop Tulkas' armour and kissing him passionately, pushing him back down to the floor with a painful clang. Strong metal arms wrapped tenderly around her slim body as Tulkas gripped onto her, returning her kisses desperately. They remained entwined, amid the oil and dust and rubble, while Almaren burned around them.


	21. Part 3: Crescendo - Chapter 21

 

Celebrations for the reconstruction of Almaren were muted. The conflict that claimed hundreds of Ain lives was still fresh in the memory, as was the premature catharsis of rebuilding the Surveillance tower, now understood to be just the first blow of a campaign of terror. Friends and lovers nonetheless congregated in their rebuilt homes, raising glasses and toasting to their own luck, and the memory of the fallen.

For the first time in months Ormal's light shone strong and golden over pristine marble, the clouds and smoke of Melkor's rebellion at length dispelled. The men and women of Arda had thrown themselves into the cleanup operation so heartily that they had almost forgotten the long, arduous process which still awaited them, currently skulking and brooding in dungeons deep underground.

Melkor paced the length of his cell, a plain off-white cube without adornment save a single cot, lit by harsh fluorescent light. Lesser men would have been driven insane by the monotony, but Melkor – seventy-eight days into his incarceration, as the series of notches carved into the side of his cot testified – had weathered his situation with such remarkable fortitude that several of the Iluvátar's psychologists had requested to examine him.

Seventy-eight days of the same three meals at the same times every day, of an hour's exercise in the open air – albeit, open air eighty feet above his head at the bottom of a sheer pit – of nothing to do beyond retrace the same seven steps from one wall to another and no-one to talk to beyond what his own mind could conjure. Some had conjectured that by the time Almaren was rebuilt and the charges and evidence for the court martial cleared, Melkor would be unfit to stand trial and would therefore be acquitted by default; few would have admitted it, but they were secretly glad to be proven wrong.

The now-familiar chirrup of the jailer's override pricked his ears up. As he turned to the front of the cell, the wall dissolved to reveal a long, grey corridor which seemed to stretch on forever. Two huge security officers stood just short of the delineation between captivity and freedom, their faces plastered into a grim rictus which barely concealed a palpable hatred. Melkor scoffed at their presence; an impenetrable forcefield separated him from them. He had as much chance of escape as a fly trapped in a jar. He knew what they were there for: intimidation.

"I must conclude," Melkor announced, "that I am to receive my first visitor in almost three months of festering down here?" The guards parted to reveal Manwë, unamused. A star-shaped scar arced across his left eyebrow, blonde hair showed a small streak of grey above the right temple, and a close-cropped beard aged him yet further. "At least, I  _think_ it's been three months," Melkor quipped, eyeing his brother up and down. "They do say your perception of time gets…fuzzy."

Manwë bowed his head, clenching his fists as Melkor chuckled to himself. "Everything," he began, shutting his mouth into a tight line as emotion make his voice shake, "everything you've done, and you are still incapable of taking anything seriously," he muttered quietly. "Always have to get the last word."

"Be honest," Melkor replied, pacing towards the hissing forcefield. "You've missed me, brother."

Manwë's eyes flickered upwards, glaring dangerously at his captive. "I am here," he growled, "as your commanding officer. Nothing else. Not ever again." Melkor's mocking smile faltered as Manwë's rage seethed silently outwards, lashing at the forcefield with invisible tendrils. "I am here to tell you that a date has been set for your court martial. You will appear before a panel of three judges eight days from today to argue your case. An advocate has been appointed to you and you will be allowed time to discuss matters pertaining to your defence, at my discretion." Manwë paused and gathered himself, feeling his voice breaking again. "I am also compelled to inform you that, if convicted…for the majority of the charges laid against you, you face the death penalty." He gulped hard. "Do you understand this information?"

Melkor ran his tongue over his teeth, avoiding his brother's gaze. "That depends on what you mean by un-"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" Manwë bellowed, flecking enraged spittle into the forcefield, which sizzled and cracked violently. His voice echoed endlessly down the long, deep corridor, stiffening Melkor's back almost unconsciously.

"Yes," Melkor replied, his eyes meeting Manwë's for the first time since he'd nearly beat him to death. Without any further ceremony, Manwë turned on his heels and stormed back down the corridor, followed closely by his entourage.

"It was nice seeing you again, Manwë," Melkor called after his brother as the fourth wall of his cell reappeared, imprisoning him once more. Slowly he slunk back to his cot and buried his head in his hands, the voices in his head silent for the first time in months.

* * *

"So," Tulkas said, "call me stupid-"

"I might," Nessa replied.

"But…how does this whole 'avatar' thing…work?"

Nessa sighed good-naturedly. "My body's in suspended animation down in the Tank, right?" Tulkas nodded. "My consciousness is…compressed, I suppose, into a data stream. A living algorithm." She giggled as Tulkas' brow began to furrow in confusion. "That algorithm is intertwined with _another_  algorithm which determines my physical form – a facsimile of my body."

"And how…accurate is this facsimile?" Tulkas asked, running his fingers down Nessa's bare breast. Nessa bit her lip as rough fingertips brushed her nipple.

"You're not missing anything, if that's what you're wondering," she replied with a lusty giggle, wrapping her bare leg around Tulkas' and pulling the sheet over her shoulder. "And the entire thing," she continued, "is broadcast from a combination of satellites and quantum holograph relays, which use the quantum tunnelling effect to ensure I have a physical presence in the world – that I have a 'body'."

"You sure do," Tulkas muttered, wrapping a huge arm around Nessa's waist and hauling her up, squealing, to lay atop him. "But what about…eating? Drinking? How does that work?"

"Appetite's just a mental function," Nessa explained, "so my eating and drinking habits haven't changed. It's better, in fact, because now I can stuff my face and never gain a pound."

"But where does it…" Tulkas asked, suddenly bashful, "…go?"

Nessa chuckled. "It isn't just a body on the outside, you know," she said, sitting up on Tulkas' midriff. The early morning light bathed her bone-white skin, making her glow like the marble outside. "Mechanically, everything inside works the same way it ever did, with the bonus that none of it really matters. I'm only breathing because it's a reflex," she said. Tulkas cocked his head, enthralled.

"But you're…here," he muttered, running his hands along her thighs.

"I certainly am," Nessa replied, bending to kiss Tulkas' lips softly. "I'm glad you are, too." Her smile faltered and nestled her head on his chest, holding onto her lover tightly.

"What's up, love?" Tulkas asked tenderly, stroking her ginger hair. Nessa sighed.

"Court martial date's been set," she said. "That means…once this is all done with, the Iluvátar's leaving. Which means…you'll be…" She sniffed, wiping a damp eye with the back of her hand. "It took me ten years to realise I love you, and soon I'm never going to see you again."

Tulkas cradled Nessa's face in a huge hand, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "No," he said. "I'm not going."

Nessa sniffed noisily. "What?"

"Oromë wants me to head up Security so he can go back to Recon. I reckon I'm in enough people's good books to make it happen," he smiled as Nessa laughed shakily, more tears running down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around Tulkas' neck and clung onto him.

"That's why you were asking about the…" Nessa blurted.

"I wanted to know what I had in store," Tulkas chuckled as Nessa wiped her eyes dry.

"Arse," Nessa mumbed, slapping his face playfully. "Now I think about it," she sighed, "we'll probably both be called as witnesses."

"Can't be helped," Tulkas replied. "Won't be the first court martial I've been involved in, but it'll certainly be the quickest, I'm telling you that," he muttered darkly. "But, we'll jump off that bridge when we come to it. For now…" Tulkas shrugged. "How about we have sex again?" Nessa bit her lip in concentration.

"Yeah, go on then."

* * *

Varda checked her watch nervously. Nienna was now twenty minutes late, and she was beginning to worry her friend had overstated her readiness to return to work.

"You're sure she hasn't called ahead?" Varda asked the guard. "Not even a message?"

"Positive, Ma'am," the guard replied, staring impassively forward.

Varda sighed and pulled her hair back, frustrated, into a tight ponytail. Without her communicator she felt cut-off from the rest of the world, but the protocol on house arrestees was very clear – anything which could be used to communicate with the world outside their walls was forbidden, with even pens and paper strictly controlled.

At the end of the side street where she waited, Varda watched the tide of people mill back and forth, waiting for a glimpse of Nienna's unmistakable green and blue robe. It felt sordid, doing their business tucked away in an alley, aside from what passed for polite society, and also strangely exposed; as the population passed by, she was sure she felt one or two pairs of eyes peering voyeuristically past the guards that barred the way, speculating on what the wife of the Commander was doing  _there_.

After few more minutes of fretful pacing, Nienna eventually arrived, full of apologies for her lateness. Varda disregarded them and embraced her friend tightly. "I'm just glad to see you're ready to start again," she said as she pulled away. "You're looking a lot better."

Nienna smiled sadly, absent-mindedly fingering the dangling end of the light blue scarf she now habitually wrapped around her bald head. "Even if it's a nice lie, I can still tell," she chided Varda, who blushed deeply. Nienna now more or less permanently resembled an ascetic from the days of the fanatical devotees, with heavy bags under her eyes, cheeks hollow and pinched and her once full lips reduced to slivers. The hands Varda held in her own were all bone, their nut-brown skin flecked with patches of white. The horrors wrought by Melkor in his short-lived rebellion, and the pain suffered by the hundreds who'd died, had overwhelmed her senses, boosted as they now were by the physical connection her living body shared with the other Ardans. The last three months had been marked by long, slow, painful rehabilitation, with much of it spent in an induced coma to help manage the cacophony of voices in her head. In her darkest moments, Varda had feared her friend might never again live a normal life – and yet here she was, proving her wrong.

"Shall we go inside?" Varda asked. Nienna nodded enthusiastically, and the pair stood shoulder-to-shoulder to be patted down by the guard, their cuffs and pockets turned out and their shoes checked. Even Nienna's notepad was scrutinised to make sure it didn't hold any secrets. Finally satisfied, the guard turned to key in the passcode on the heavy-duty lock over the door. They stepped through into a large, cold foyer, a world away from the bright and warm street, its life and noise silenced by stone walls in which nothing seemed to move.

"I thought she'd be waiting for us," Varda muttered as Nienna pulled her robes tighter across her shoulders, feeling a sudden chill.

"She's scared," Nienna replied. "Her fear, it…it's almost suffocating."

Soft steps echoed from the upstairs landing that stretched across the face of the foyer, and the pair took a second to present a bolder front.

"Hello, Varda," Enwe greeted her old friend, leaning out over the parapet. "Nienna."

"Hello, Enwe," Varda replied. Nienna inclined her head floridly. "Are you ready for our meeting?"

Enwe remained silent, a blank face concealing a whirlwind of terror. She descended the stairs slowly, her eyes locked with Varda's like a snake eyeing prey. "Yes," she said, gesturing they follow her to her study.

Varda's stomach turned as they entered the room.  _This must have been where he plotted with his minions,_  she thought, perturbed and revolted by how sinister it appeared; windows blocked out with heavy curtains, nailed into place; sconces on the wall holding burning torches; a long, black wooden table, varnished to a mirror shine and surrounded by huge, wing-back chairs, like a committee of vultures crowded around a festering corpse. She and Nienna took adjacent seats and Enwe sat opposite them, reclining completely into the luxuriant leather.

"Shall I get us started?" Nienna asked Varda quietly. Varda nodded. "Alright, Enwe, you've been informed of Melkor's upcoming court martial, have you not?" Enwe nodded. "Up until this time you've been under house arrest due to your alleged involvement in the crimes of which Melkor stands accused." Enwe blinked slowly, her face still an inscrutable mask. "This meeting is to determine whether your current mental state – and your mental state at the time of these allegations – would allow you to stand trial also, if you were to be indicted. If you want us to stop at any time, just let me know. Do you have any questions?"

"What's she doing here?" Enwe muttered, her dark eyes darting to Varda and back.

"Commander Varda is here on behalf of the state to ensure that I observe all the proper procedures," Nienna replied quickly, her frail voice warm with reassurance. "It's a necessary part of the process."

Enwe smirked mirthlessly. "Wonder how many strings you had to pull to make sure  _that_ happened," she quipped. Varda made to rise but a gesture from Nienna froze her, before finally settling back down.

"Off the record?" Varda replied. "You wouldn't believe how many strings I had to pull just to make this meeting happen."

"Why'd you bother?" Enwe scoffed, regarding Varda with a pitying glance.

"Because if you go to trial," Varda retorted, "and if you're found guilty, there's a very real possibility of the death sentence. Consider this one last favour," she spat. Anger burned fiercely between the two former friends until Nienna came back into the conversation.

"Commander Varda is right, Enwe," she said delicately. "The charges you're facing are of the utmost seriousness, but we believe between us that there are grounds for leniency, or possibly even acquittal. That's why it's very important that you are completely honest with us in this meeting – please be assured that nothing said in this room will ever leave it." Enwe rolled her eyes as Nienna spoke, crossing her arms in frustration.

"Where do you want to begin?" she said grumpily.

"Tell me about your relationship with Melkor," Nienna asked her. Enwe smirked again.

"Thought  _she'd_ have told you all about it," she replied.

"This isn't about Varda," Nienna pre-empted her. "This is about you. Your experiences."

"Why don't you just read my mind?" Enwe replied peevishly. "We all know you can do it."

Nienna coughed tersely. Varda seethed quietly as she felt her friend begin to get aggrieved; no mind-reading required. "First of all, it doesn't work like that," Nienna explained, "and secondly, anything I glean directly from your mental state is inadmissible in court. There's no way for the court to tell what's real and what's inferred." Silence settled over them like the slow retreat of fighting cats at stalemate. In bearing and mannerisms, Varda thought to herself, Enwe was becoming more and more like Melkor; aloof, stubborn and imperious. And yet she had to cling to Nienna's first impression upon entering the home Enwe and Melkor once shared; fear. The Enwe she once knew was still there, just buried under mountains of conditioning and psychic defences. If anyone could bring her back out again, it was Nienna.

"Please," Nienna asked, more calmly, "tell me about your relationship with Melkor."

Enwe sighed deeply. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you like."

Like an evasive child, Enwe began timidly, giving the barest report of the chronology of her and Melkor's romance; their first meeting alongside Varda and Manwë, their work together in Engineering. But as the story came out, Enwe became bolder, letting spill months' worth of fears and worries; her distrust of Mairon, her initial belief in Melkor's right to rule and her eventual horror at the methods he planned to use. Varda sat transfixed as the mask slowly slipped and revealed the old Enwe, brought low with unimaginable terror. It was as though a great dam had been brought down around her emotions and let loose a flood that until now had been barely restrained.

"I believed in him," Enwe said, the dark kohl around her eyes streaked messily down her cheeks. "We all did. Mairon, Ancalagon, and the rest – he made them feel special, like they were part of something big, that they could trust him completely. And me," she continued, sniffing loudly, "he made me feel like I was  _worth_ something for once…at least, until he stopped even looking at me. The work, the plan, it became everything. And I tried to love him still, and stay myself, but I just…couldn't, it was like I had to become someone…someone  _else_ ," she sobbed. "Someone awful."

Varda's lips twisted and eyes pricked with tears as she watched Enwe self-destruct in front of her, while Nienna calmly took notes. That her friend could withstand the explosion of grief and rage and fear taking place at arm's length from her, Varda thought to herself, was testament to her character. Even she, non-Touched, was feeling overwhelmed.

"Can I," Enwe sniffed messily, "can we stop? I don't think I…"

"Of course," Nienna replied sympathetically. "Please, take time to compose yourself and freshen up. Come back when you're ready." Enwe gave a frail smile and left the room, prompting Varda to collapse into a stifled sob as the door closed.

"How can you stand it?" She asked Nienna as she wiped her eyes. "How do you not go mad?"

"I accept I may very well be," Nienna replied with a strange smile. "But yes, there's definitely no deceit in her. She is…incredibly traumatised by what she's seen and been forced to do.  _So_ much so," she whispered, shaking her head in sorrow. "I'm not 100% about getting her acquitted completely, but there's definitely no evidence she did any of this of her own volition."

"What would it take?" Varda asked.

"She would need to testify against Melkor," Nienna replied quietly, hearing Enwe returning. "Even then it's not up to us."

"Make it happen," Varda replied quickly as Enwe returned, visibly more composed. The rest of the meeting passed smoothly, with Enwe more or less keeping a lid on her emotions through to the end.

"There's something I'd like to ask, Enwe," Varda interjected as Nienna wrapped up, wordlessly asking her approval. Nienna nodded shortly. "There's enough evidence to convict Melkor of these crimes a thousand times over, but witness testimony is still the gold standard in any court." Enwe's chest swelled with anticipation over the question hovering in the air. "Would you be willing to testify against Melkor at his court martial? If you are, we can get you the best deal they're going to offer. Full acquittal," Varda enunciated slowly, letting her words sink in. Enwe nodded, avoiding Varda's gaze.

"I understand that," she replied, "and I appreciate it, I really do. But…" Enwe's lip began to tremble once more. "Melkor would boast about how he had 'people on the inside'. People loyal to him that weren't in Engineering, people only he knew about. I was never sure how far to believe him on that, but…" she shook her head, as if banishing a nightmare. "That man is capable of anything."

"We can protect you," Varda said, leaning across the table. "Completely. We'll give you lodgings at the Palace with Manwë and I. You'll be safe, I promise." Enwe sighed as a silent tear rolled down her cheek.

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course," Nienna replied. "I'll put my observations before the court and they'll advise us on what kind of a deal they can offer you, both with and without testimony. We can decide from there." Enwe nodded. With the meeting over, she led Nienna and Varda to the door to bid them goodbye.

"Thank you for your time, Enwe," Nienna said, bowing as she ever did. Enwe replied in kind.

Varda stepped forward, pulling out her ponytail to shake loose her long, dark hair, and placed a hand on Enwe's shoulder, running her thumb casually along her collarbone before pulling her forward for a deep and passionate kiss. Nienna averted her gaze, eyes wide as Enwe wrapped her arms around Varda's body and arched forward in desperation, seeming to thirst for her touch like a dying woman for water. As the two parted they remained entwined in each other's arms, panting.

"I'm always here," Varda whispered. Enwe nodded silently, only with great reluctance breaking their embrace. Without another word she saw them both out, the atmosphere of the room grown decidedly awkward.

Varda and Nienna walked quickly back toward the main road, a pregnant bubble of silence hovering above them both. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Manwë about that," Varda muttered as they reached the road.

"O-of course," Nienna replied as they rejoined the flow of foot traffic. "I can't tell anyone about anything that happened in that house that isn't on this record…I just didn't realise you-"

"Yeah, well," Varda interjected. "We all have to have some secrets."

Slumped on the floor beside the door she could never walk through, Enwe brought shaking hands up to her lips and pulled a small silver disc out of her mouth.

* * *

Before anyone was quite ready for it, the court martial had come. The courtroom in the basement of the Palace had been spruced and readied for its first use; the smell of wood polish was almost overpowering, and the gleam from the bronze railings lining the judges' bench blinding. Adze's court, according to legend, had been based on the arenas of his day, where bloodsports would be played out to baying crowds; evidently, many thought, the fabled God-Emperor had a penchant for irony, designing a huge public gallery, able to seat hundreds, in a circle around the court floor, where the accused stood caged in its centre before a bench of judges, the only two features in an otherwise sparse and brutalist space. The only light in the space filtered in from long windows at the very top of the walls, starting at ground-level; but without true sunlight to stream in and reflect off the polished stones that ran in a pattern beneath the windows, it gave the courtroom a murky, ethereal quality.

Court ushers fastidiously tidied and re-tidied the public gallery up until the eleventh hour, when most of Arda tried to gain access in a clamouring, undignified struggle. Despite the pain wrought by the accused over weeks and months, the atmosphere in the courtroom was vibrant, almost carnival; a great mass of energy threatened to explode out of the crowd at any time, like concert-goers ready to cheer for their idols. The promise of closure, of an end to a long and sorrowful journey, seemed to have enervated the people, and brought an almost celebratory mood to what would typically have been a sombre experience. Friends found each other in the gallery, greeting with hugs and kisses, and compared predictions; though there was very little disagreement on the outcome of the trial, most had an opinion on exactly how it would play out.

The arrival of the judges silenced the rabble like a class before its teacher; three elders of Ain, in full pomp and regalia, took their seats and made their vows to rule in the best interests of the people.

"I've got to admit," Námo whispered to Ulmo, "I'm surprised they didn't come out with the black hat already on."

Ulmo bit his lip to suppress giggles, stared at by Varda. Ulmo's shame overtook his amusement as he registered Manwë, resplendent in dress uniform and head bowed, as though unwilling to acknowledge what was to come. The Valar sat in a line in the front row, in a cordoned-off stretch of the public gallery to the right of the judges. Legend said that Adze and his counsellors would sit here and observe the process of law, and interject when his supreme wisdom felt moved to get its own way. Its occupiers today, however, were content to be silent as the grave.

"Home stretch, Manwë," Eru, sat at his left, whispered. "Let's see this out." Manwë nodded silently, his eyes still firmly fixed on his shoes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the lead judge, a bass-voiced elderly black man, proclaimed, "I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the solemnity of the proceedings we are about to undertake. Nonetheless, I feel I must remind you all, for the record, that regardless of the severity of these allegations, justice will be – justice  _must be_ – done. That does not mean we cry for the noose before the accused has even spoken. We will show him all that is due to him, all that is due to any man or woman brought to trial before the eyes of the people; we will hear him speak, and consider his words. In the judgment of its most heinous crimes, society, too, is on trial; we will prove we are the better men." The judge looked to his colleagues, who both nodded. "Bring forth the accused."

A palpable chill rippled through the crowd, caught between revulsion and the thrill of predators before the hunt. The echo of locking and unlocking doors grew closer and closer, until at length Melkor, gagged and swaddled in chains, trudged defiantly into the courtroom.

"Murderer!" Cried one voice. "Traitor!" Cried another, both swiftly censured by the ushers. Melkor took his place in the cage in eerie silence, thrusting his hands out of the bars to be uncuffed and shaking his hair loose as he was ungagged. The slam of the cage door and the clink of the bolt echoed ominously.

"State your name for the court," the lead judge asked Melkor.

"Melkor Úmor, son of Meridan," Melkor replied.

"Melkor Úmor, you stand accused of the following crimes," the judge announced as he brought a pair of half-moon glasses to his eyes, scanning his notes. "Theft, six counts. Assault, one count. Attempted murder, two counts. Terrorism, two counts. Mutiny, one count. And murder…two hundred and seventeen counts," the judge finished to a groan from the crowd. The judge to his left pushed another piece of paper under his nose.

"And numerous lesser charges," he continued, "comprising dereliction of duty, misappropriation of funds, misappropriation of supplies, insubordination, and striking a superior officer." The judge cleared his throat. "How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Melkor replied. The crowd erupted in a simultaneous bark of laughter, covering the rustle of money changing hands. The judge banged his hand on his desk to bring silence.

"Melkor Úmor, it was my understanding that an advocate from the Iluvátar's considerable legal presence was appointed to you, is that so?"

"That is correct."

"It also appears that you have decided not to submit any evidence prior to this hearing, is that correct?"

"That is also correct."

"Then where, may I ask, is your advocate?"

"I have dismissed my advocate," Melkor replied. "I intend to represent myself."

Chatter, laughter and gasps of surprise filled the courtroom as the judges looked to one another, perplexed. "Alright," Tulkas said, turning in his seat, "alright, pay up!" Three crewmen grumbled as they dug deep into their pockets and filled Tulkas' huge hand with notes. Silence returned as the judge banged his desk again.

"Melkor Úmor, given the seriousness of the charges against you, are you certain this is the wisest course of action?"

"He didn't understand," Melkor replied. "Didn't…appreciate my intentions. Kept insisting I plead guilty and hope for life imprisonment. I told him I would rather die."

"Am I to interpret this," the judge began, stumbling over his words, "are we to take this as an expression that you are actively seeking the death penalty? For yourself?"

"Not for myself," Melkor replied, averting his gaze from the judge for the first time to stare at his brother. Manwë's heart seemed to burst within his chest, shaking his head as his eyes pricked with tears.

"That little bastard," Varda whispered, gripping Manwë's hand as tightly as she could.

"Though of course, I have no intention of dying," Melkor continued. "I wouldn't be pleading not guilty otherwise."

"The evidence submitted by the prosecution," another judge, an elderly white woman with a nose like a beak, interjected, "will take weeks, if not months, to go through. With no evidence of your own, and no legal representative, I struggle to see what kind of an effective defence you can muster. I've been a judge for over thirty years, and for the first time I am in the position of considering a not guilty plea as being in contempt of court!"

"I agree," the third judge, a short, bald man, younger than his two colleagues, said. "You have deliberately sabotaged your defence by dismissing your representative, and precluded your own right to a speedy trial; it seems as though, in my opinion, you are deliberately dragging out these proceedings."

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" Melkor replied, a strange smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Manwë made to get up, enraged, but was dragged down by Varda and Eru at either arm.

"This is his game," Eru hissed into Manwë's ear. "He is playing you. He's playing us all. We can't blink. Stare him down and let him know he's beaten." The judges huddled and conferred, leaving the courtroom in uneasy silence for several minutes.

"We've come to the decision that, while this situation is highly unorthodox," the lead judge announced, "the trial must continue. The accused has been given the opportunity to defend himself, and he has not taken it. That, as far as this court is concerned, is his business. We therefore begin with the case for the prosecution."

A tall man in a black hooded robe stood up in the first row of the public gallery and made his way to the centre of the court, where he made his oath to be truthful. This done, he removed his hood to reveal a youthful face and began his opening statement.

"Your honours, although, as you say, the evidence I have submitted will take weeks to go through, it is my belief that my first witness will render all that moot." Varda's breast swelled with anticipation as murmurs of discontent swirled around her. She and Nienna's plea deal had been successful; in exchange for her testimony, Enwe would be exonerated of all charges and placed under protective custody in the Palace for the foreseeable future. It was a new start and a chance for her friend to truly find herself as a person.

"My first witness is someone who operated in direct conjunction with the accused and, as such, was privy to their deepest and darkest secrets; today, secrets no more. I call upon Mairon Graun to take the stand."

Pandemonium erupted in the galleries. Tulkas and Oromë took to their feet and roared in outrage; the Engineers in attendance hurled vile insults as Mairon entered the court, chained and flanked by security guards, and took up position at Melkor's side; even Melkor's eyes appeared to grow twice their size with enraged shock. Varda leaned out over the rail and screamed at the prosecutor.

"Where's Enwe?" she yelled. "Why have you done a deal with this monster?"

"SILENCE!" The judge bellowed over the chaos, slamming his hand down repeatedly. Ushers and security staff moved in to remove the more violent protestors and after some time normality reasserted itself. "You may continue," he addressed the prosecutor, staring daggers at the audience.

The young man swallowed hard, blanched by the anger of the crowd. "A-are you Mairon Graun, Ain-born?"

"I am," Mairon replied. His aquiline nose was significantly shortened from the last time most of the crowd had seen him; there were very few guesses as to who was responsible.

"And you were a lieutenant under the command of the accused, were you not?"

"I was."

"Well then, to get straight to the heart of things: Was there a plan to take control of this planet by force?"

"Yes, there was."

"And who was responsible for this plan?"

"He was," Mairon mumbled, nodding in Melkor's direction. Hairs raised on arms throughout the courtroom as Melkor clung to the bars, face pressed between them as though trying to squeeze through them and launch himself at Mairon.

"Point him out," the prosecutor asked loudly. Mairon turned and pointed towards Melkor. In a blur of motion, Melkor reached his hand out through the bars and grabbed Mairon's wrist, yanking the bigger man forward. Mairon's head connected with the bars viciously as Melkor wrapped his hands around his mouth and throat, trying to choke his former confidant.

"Bastard!" He hissed, foaming at the mouth. "Duplicitous bastard!" Mairon, arms chained, was helpless against the assault as the guards struggled to peel Melkor's hands away. Uproar exploded once more as the judge took to his feet to order the guards to open Melkor's cage. Tulkas had one leg over the rail before the cage door was opened and Melkor beaten with batons, forcing him to finally break his hold on Mairon, who staggered backwards and fell to the floor, vomiting. A groan of disgust rippled through the crowd as Mairon put his hand in the pool of vomit as he tried to regain his feet, slipping and tumbling back to the stone floor.

"Get him up!" The judge cried out, exasperated. The guards hooked their arms under Mairon's and forced him up, now a sorry state dripping with blood and filth.

"Melkor, this is your first and only warning," the judge addressed him as the guards left him groaning in pain in his cell and locked the door behind them. "If you disrupt these proceedings one more time, you will forfeit your wish to defend yourself, do I make myself clear?"

"And what would that entail?" Melkor groaned as he got to his feet.

"It would entail you being removed to your cell for the duration of this trial and being tried  _in absentia_. Do you understand?"

"Time's up, Melkor," Mairon spat through a mouthful of blood. "Make the most of it." The two locked eyes, staring each other down, before Melkor finally spoke.

"No," Melkor sighed, "I don't understand. I don't understand why any of this had to happen. I don't understand why I wasn't given command of the Iluvátar-"

"What the bloody hell is he doing?" Eru whispered through grit teeth.

"-I don't understand why I wasn't given command of Arda to begin with, I'm more than qualified for both-"

"He's being Melkor," Manwë replied sadly.

"I don't understand why you're all so upset about the Surveillance Tower, I mean – didn't I do WELL? I was there within minutes! Granted, I blew it up in the first place, but-"

"You realise," the lead judge called out over roars of horror, "you've just admitted responsibility for one terror attack and six murders? Would you like to change your plea?"

"NO!" Melkor screeched, grabbing the bars and shaking them like a caged animal. "You don't GET IT! NONE of you do! I do not recognise this court! I do not recognise the authority of that man there!" He spat, pointing at Manwë, who turned his face away, embarrassed. "What I have done has made Arda stronger! I hurt you all and I made you strong! Try to deny it!"

As Melkor's rant become more and more animated and the hubbub around her became louder and louder, a seed of doubt sprouted within Varda's mind. Something was wrong. Something about Melkor's performance seemed, she realised, exactly that. While everyone was watching Melkor, Mairon's eyes were fixed intently upward, his hands moving across each other suspiciously. Far from the beaten, broken figure he'd just cut, too, he seemed anxious, his body coiled like a snake ready to strike.

"Tell Tulkas," Varda whispered to Ulmo beside her, "I think Mairon's got something in his hands." Varda's heart raced as she watched Mairon's hands move over themselves out of the corner of her eye, knowing all too well that raising the alarm immediately might lead to deaths; she'd seen his brutality first-hand. She looked to her right, where her fellow Valar turned one by one to pass the message down to Tulkas, who sat seething just two yards from where Mairon stood; he could easily take him by surprise and neutralise any threat. The endless, supersonic thumping of her heart rang in her ears and drained out Melkor's diatribe as guards crossed to the cage, preparing to open it and, no doubt, remove Melkor back to his cell. The stench of vomit stung Varda's nose and turned her churning stomach.

Like a drowning man's life flashing before his eyes, Varda suddenly saw the whole picture. She replayed in her mind the image of Mairon being throttled, and his hands slick with sick. She remembered her mouth locked with Enwe's, tongues sliding against each other.

 _I hid something,_ Varda thought to herself,  _inside me._

_So did they._

Her worst fears confirmed, Varda turned to tell Manwë and Eru, but was interrupted by Ulmo's hand on her shoulder.

"Tulkas asks, 'Why does your Uncle Ronnie have a pink caravan'?"

Down the row, Tulkas stuck his head out towards her and shrugged. Varda gasped in horror as Melkor was dragged bodily from his cell, kicking and screaming, and Mairon made a dash into position by his side a split-second before the ceiling exploded.

Screams of terror filled the courtroom as the stampede began. A cascade of marble descended over the gallery, downing dozens instantly and creating a mass of bodies which those behind them tripped over and were crushed against. Security personnel shielded the Valar with their bodies against the tide of humanity as the ushers desperately tried to impose calm and open the doors, which had been barred shut for the duration of the trial.

"Stop them!" Manwë cried out, pushing the security guard standing over him away. "They're getting away!" The Valar rose as one to see Melkor and Mairon making their way in the opposite directions, back through the panicking torrent, towards the hole which had been made in the upper windows. Eru, showing the sprightliness of a man half his age, vaulted the rail and launched himself at Mairon, wrestling him to the ground where they were quickly engulfed by stampeding feet. Tulkas began throwing people left and right to clear himself a path, battling his way to Melkor as he climbed the public gallery towards the hole, which all suddenly realised was glowing peculiarly.

"SHUTTLE!" Oromë roared. "They've got a shuttle!" Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Nessa and Aulë leapt out into the crowd and began to fight their way towards Melkor as the others escaped, but the tide was too strong and they quickly found themselves battered, bruised and held in place.

"Melkor!" Manwë called out after his brother, reaching desperately as the crowd threatened to bear him away with them. Out of nowhere an elbow hit him between the eyes and sent him to his knees, his blurred vision making out the shape of Mairon powering through the crowd and leaping up the rows of the gallery to grab Melkor by the waist and shin up a rope thrown down from the shuttle. A huge hand rose from the crowd and wrapped around Mairon's leg, but a swift, bone-breaking kick to the wrist broke Tulkas' hold and within seconds, they were gone. The roar of shuttle engines shook the courtroom, eliciting more screams, and soon after the only people left standing were those Valar that had tried to stop their prisoners escaping.

Varda slumped to the floor in a daze. Yet another clinical assault had gone like clockwork. Mairon's false change of heart, Melkor's attack, and his being let out of his cage just in time for their getaway vehicle; their timing had to be down to the second, and so it was. It was as if there was no prison they could put Melkor in that he couldn't think his way out of.

"Distress beacon," Aulë sighed, stooping to pick up a small metal device lying where Mairon had stood. "Like the kind we use on the satellites. Must've cannibalised it and jerry-rigged a shuttle to…"

"Oh, Gods," Nessa whimpered as the end of the stampede revealed what it had hidden.

Manwë, still downed and groggy, crawled back to kneel at Eru's side. The Captain was lying flat, breathing shallowly and pale as bone. Spots of blood glistened on the white hairs of his beard, and he lay in a pool of blood flowing freely from wounds his abdomen.

"Mairon," he whispered, his voice thin and croaky. "Knife. Didn't see," he groaned, crying out in pain as he tried to move.

"Don't move, Sir," Manwë said, holding his head tenderly. "Someone get Irmo back here now, or Estë, either of them," he ordered his officers. "Someone get the hospital ready." Ulmo nodded and dashed off towards the door, his footfalls echoing in the silent, cavernous room.

"I'm sorry, Manwë," Eru groaned, "but I don't think I'm getting out of this one."

"Yes you are," Manwë replied, grinding his teeth. "I promise, you're going to be fine." Tulkas trudged back from where he'd fallen, clutching his broken wrist.

"I'm sorry, I…I couldn't hold onto him," he mumbled. Nessa crossed to his side and embraced him tightly, burying her face into his arm.

"It's alright, Manwë," Eru said softly, clasping a blood-soaked hand over Manwë's. "At least I'm with her. I'm home," he sighed, lifting his face up painfully to soak up Ormal's light. "I never wanted to die on a spaceship anyway."

Varda knelt by her husband and held his shoulders as Manwë shuddered with a sudden sob. "We failed," he moaned. "We built a world and within days it's come to this. Ain is lost."

"No," Eru breathed. "Not lost. Worlds are built on the bones of martyrs. Cemented with the blood of heroes. Clad in the strength of legend. This will be just another legend…a creation myth."

"How can I govern," Manwë whispered, "without you to guide me?" Eru laughed gently.

"I'm making it up as I go along half the time," he coughed. "You will too. Manwë," he whispered, beckoning his first mate closer, "they're coming."

"Who, Sir?"

"We are. Far…so far from now. The real us, as we're meant to be. Not false bodies, not asleep…we're coming back."

"He's delirious," Oromë muttered softly in Manwë's ear, gripping his arm with a powerful hand. "He's going."

Irmo and Estë raced across the floor, sliding on their knees to the dying Captain's side. One look, however, told Irmo he had arrived too late, and he hung his head in sorrow while Estë looked up to the heavens and began chanting softly.

"You'll learn, in time. Time is all you have now. Teach them. Be…better," Eru whispered. Manwë grimaced, red-eyed, as he felt the Captain's grip on his hand weaken. "Better…"

Manwë let out a strangled scream of grief as Eru's hand slipped away. The Valar bowed their heads and wept silently as Manwë wrapped his arms around the Captain's neck and held his lifeless body close to his, bellowing in sorrow and rage and pain. Varda rubbed her husband's shoulders as they heaved back and forth, his cries echoing off the stone walls of the courtroom into a monstrous roar.

* * *

Enwe turned the silver disc in her fingers, as she had done more or less constantly for the last week. She'd been too scared to use it; despite all the millions of things running through her head, using it at the wrong time would get Varda into a world of trouble. That was the last thing she wanted to do, especially when she had come through for her so spectacularly. A shy smile and a rush of blood still flitted over her face when she thought of how she'd pulled off her little deception, too; despite understanding immediately what Varda was trying to do, Enwe decided she'd wanted it long enough to milk it a bit.

The familiar rumble of shuttle engines passed overhead. Enwe glanced up as the noise got nearer, and nearer, and nearer, until it felt like the shuttle was landing on the roof itself. The entire house suddenly gave an almighty shake, walls cracking and floorboards jutting up from the impact. Enwe almost went flying, gripping onto the doorframe to steady herself. If this was how the court were collecting her, she thought, she might as well bill them for damages.

Her heart froze and muscles locked in terror as Melkor strode out onto the upstairs landing gazing down at her in the study doorway.

"What-" she gasped, trembling. "What are you-"

"We need to hurry," Melkor said quickly. "We don't have much time."

"What are you talking about?"

"We're getting out of here. Me, you, Mairon. I prepared for this eventuality," he said, turning to go, until he realised Enwe wasn't following him. "Didn't you hear me? We have to go! Now!"

"But…why?" Enwe said, her eyes big as saucers. "Why did you come back for me?"

Melkor's brow furrowed, hurt. "I'm a lot of things," he said, stretching his hand out down the stairs, "but I'm not a coward." Enwe gripped tightly on the silver disc in her unseen hand and made her decision.

"Of course," she said, with the biggest smile she could muster, "my love." Melkor smiled warmly as she ran up the stairs to join him, kissing him deeply.

"Come on then," he said, "or we'll miss the boat."

Enwe nodded enthusiastically as he ran ahead, her shaking fingers secreting Varda's gift in the back of her belt as she followed him.

* * *

Illuin's light seemed bluer that night; deeper, darker, and more tempestuous. Eru's death had precipitated a leadership crisis on the Iluvátar, and it seemed that the interim captain would imminently announce their departure, never to return, leaving Arda to its troubles. Melkor's shuttle had disappeared without trace almost immediately; no doubt, Aulë supposed, equipped with the same shielding technology Melkor had installed on his Archangels. And worst of all these, as they flowed back and forth through Varda's mind, was the news that Enwe had disappeared from her home, the only clue to her whereabouts being a shuttle-shaped crater in the roof.

Varda lay awake in bed, alone. Manwë had been in meeting after crisis talk all day, taking the majority of the flak for the death of the Iluvátar's captain and trying to explain how no-one could have foreseen an escape plan of this magnitude. The giddiness of closure, the horror of Melkor's plot and the shock of Eru's death had left her numb, cold, and wishing she could fall asleep and stay so forever.

A voice in the cool darkness roused her from the edge of sleep; tinny and quiet. Slowly, Varda recognised it as Enwe's.

_Hello? Hello? Varda? Please, Gods, Varda, be there…_

Varda leapt from her bed and scoured her nightstand for her hairband, bringing it to her lips as she found it. "Enwe, it's me," she whispered into a tiny silver disc hanging from it. "Can you talk?" Varda could have kissed Nessa for her latest triumph in communications; a pair of tiny, two-way communicators, their electronics so simple they could fool most technology scans. Varda had strung them on a hairband to further disguise them; neither Enwe nor Nienna had spotted her plucking one from her hair before she kissed Enwe.

 _Very quickly,_ Enwe's tinny voice replied, hushed and tremulous.  _We've stopped, finally. The shuttle kept going for hours. I don't know where we are, but it's cold. Melkor and Mairon have gone outside. It sounds like they're talking to someone. Melkor said he…he had 'prepared for this eventuality'._

"Are you safe?" Varda asked. "Does he trust you?"

 _As much as he ever has,_ Enwe replied.  _He certainly doesn't seem to know about the deal we made. He risked everything to come back and get me,_ she mumbled.  _I guess even monsters have loved ones._

Varda sighed, feeling the pit of her stomach broiling with regret. "Stay safe," she whispered. "Contact me again only when you know exactly where you are."

 _I will,_ Enwe whispered, pausing.  _In case I don't see you again-_

"Shut up," Varda interrupted, laughing nervously. "Of course you will."

 _But,_ Enwe blurted,  _in case I don't…I know it meant nothing to you, but…I've wanted you for five years. I knew it would never happen, but…you know me. Always barking up the wrong tree. Thank you…for giving me one less regret._ Silent tears streamed down Varda's face as she clutched her hand to her mouth to stop herself crying out loud.  _Varda, are you there?_

"Yes," Varda called out, "sorry. I'm…glad I could be of service," she laughed messily, sniffling. "And we  _will_ see each other again. I promise."

 _I'll hold you to that,_ Enwe whispered.  _They're coming back. Don't wait up._

The connection went dead and Varda was left in silence once more. Despite yet more death and destruction, despite chaos at the top, despite her husband fighting a war he never asked for, Varda couldn't help but feel that not all was lost. While Enwe lived, she thought, there was yet hope.


	22. Part 3: Crescendo - Chapter 22

 

Manwë stood before the luminaries of Ain society, all of them staring daggers. The atmosphere in the Iluvátar's cramped torpedo bay was viscous with blame. A sickly feeling of dread overcame him as the crowd parted to reveal the long, sleek missile fuselage that had been converted into Eru's coffin, as per his instructions. It was loaded into the torpedo tube in silence as the staff on hand wept silently. One, stone-faced, handed Manwë the control panel for the manual launch without a word.

"If I may," Manwë spoke into the silence, affronting those who wanted to grieve and irritating those who wanted to get out and eat, "I'd like to say a few words." He cleared his throat. "Captain Eru was the finest commander of men and women I have ever known, and my job is made harder by his passing…and my life poorer." His words were met with more silence. Swallowing hard, he pressed down the release button, eliciting a few seconds of blaring alarms before the missile sped down the chamber and out into the stars.

The formalities over, the ruling council hauled Manwë into an office and gave him their unanimous decision; Arda and its inhabitants were to be abandoned. They had already wasted fuel and resources, they said, on turning around to put down Melkor's rebellion, and all they had to show for it was a war criminal still at large and dozens of their own people dead, including their own Captain. Melkor, in the council's learned opinion, was Manwë's problem – now and forever. Manwë accepted their ruling numbly; privately, he had feared for not only his own position, but his entire staff's. Leaving them to their own devices was probably the kindest thing the Iluvátar could have done.

As he reached the end of his long, awkward walk back to the shuttle, a voice from behind him stopped him in his tracks.

"Manwë!" A black-haired, middle-aged man called out, striding purposefully forward. "Hold on."

"Mavas," Manwë greeted him, standing slowly to attention. "Sorry I didn't get to speak to you after the ceremony, I-"

"Yeah, the civilians pretty much buttonholed you, I know," he said sympathetically. A sad smile flickered over his warm, wrinkled face. "It's a damn bad business. But," he said more quietly, as though afraid of being overheard, "Eru knew what he was getting into. He knew there would be others to take his place if the worst happened."

Manwë nodded. "Congratulations, by the way." Mavas' eyes swivelled to the golden epaulettes at his shoulders, as though only just noticing them.

"Oh, well…I'm still just the third-choice captain, I suppose. One dead, one taken feet. I expect this will take some getting used to."

"It gets easier," Manwë replied. "Or…it doesn't," he sighed, unable to keep his friend's gaze. An uncomfortable silence passed between them.

"I wanted to give you this," Mavas said at length, pulling a data stick from his front pocket. "This was found among Eru's possessions when we cleared out his office. It's marked for your eyes only," he said, eyeing Manwë suspiciously. Silence once again fell like a stone as Manwë stared at the data stick twisting in Mavas' fingers. "Any idea what it could be?"

"No," Manwë replied dumbly, still staring.

"The security boys are scrutinising everything they found in there; standard procedure, of course. But," he said as he clenched his fist around the stick, "I thought, whatever he wanted you to know must have been important." He loosened his grip and extended his hand towards Manwë, who took the stick gingerly.

"Thank you, Mavas," he replied, choked up. "Captain," he corrected himself. Mavas chuckled.

"Feels good to get one from you," he said. "He doesn't know how lucky he is," he muttered as Manwë pocketed the data stick, "having you for a brother." Manwë stared into Mavas' eyes, feeling a strange anger building in him. "You might be just about the only man in the universe who'd show him some mercy, even after all this." Manwë swallowed hard.

"Goodbye, Mavas," he said tersely, saluting the new Captain who followed suit uncomfortably. "Good luck."

"Same to you, Manwë," Mavas shouted as Manwë entered his shuttle and disappeared behind the closing bulkhead. "All the luck the Gods can muster," he muttered to himself as the shuttle rose up the passage to the airlock and disappeared.

* * *

The mood in the meeting room was more funereal than the actual funeral Manwë had attended just hours previously. The news that they were to be abandoned by their countrymen had hit the Valar hard. They sat around the huge meeting table at irregular intervals, protocol and decorum left by the wayside for the moment. Manwë sat slumped in his throne-like chair at the head of the table, couples pushed seats together to hold one another, and a miserable silence smothered them all.

"Are they not even going to leave a relay station in orbit?" Tulkas asked tremulously. Manwë shook his head.

"They want to cut their losses and run. Write Arda off as a failure," he replied, pained, as Tulkas' head sank all the way to the polished oak. His new head of security had more reason to feel isolated than any of them; there were friends, he was sure, he hadn't said a full goodbye to before answering the call of duty. Now, he never would.

"What kind of a danger does Melkor pose to us at this moment?" He asked into the silence.

"Ostensibly, none," Oromë piped up. "He can't have more than seven under his command, taking into account all the escapees we didn't recapture." The huge man grimaced; the mass breakout of Melkor's underlings in the immediate aftermath of his escape had been contained at the cost of the life of a good security officer, and five prisoners unaccounted for.

"You mean six," Varda interrupted. "Six, and one hostage."

"She went with him willingly," Oromë retorted. "She's made her decision." Varda bit her tongue and averted her eyes. "But, realistically, we're talking about a megalomaniac with a small, heavily-armed troop of fanatics…and we have no idea where they are. If they ever decide to hit us, and we're not ready for them…" Oromë visibly shuddered.

"Call me mad, but," Manwë sighed, "I almost prefer it when he had an army. At least you knew where they were and when they were coming."

"What now, then?" Yavanna asked, her slender hands gripping Aulë's tightly. "What do we do?"

"What  _do_ we do, Manwë?" Ulmo asked. Manwë breathed deeply, unable to meet his officers' gaze.

"I don't know," he mumbled into his fist.

"What?" Vana blurted.

"I said, I don't know," Manwë repeated, raising his head to look her in the eye.

"You don't know?  _You don't know?_ " Nessa shouted across the table. "You're the Commander! If you don't know, who does?"

"Commander!" Oromë barked at Nessa, like a guard dog leaping in front of its wounded master. "How dare you address your commanding officer like that?"

"She's saying what we're all thinking," Tulkas growled, raising his head from the table. "We need a plan and he's just said he doesn't have one, what else are we to do?"

"He? You will address the Commander as such!" Oromë replied as he took to his feet, incandescent with rage.

"Now?" Tulkas rose from his seat also. "You really want to choose now to be a lickspittle?"

"Oromë-" Manwë interjected, tiredly.

"I will not sit here," Oromë hissed at Tulkas, ignoring his commander, "and let the chain of command fall apart for one-"

"Oromë, SIT DOWN!" Manwë yelled. His voice echoed deafeningly in the high, marble-clad chamber, resounding like the aftermath of an explosion. Oromë and Tulkas retook their seats slowly, like chastened schoolboys.

"No," Manwë begun, once the last echoes of his scream had abated. "No, I don't have a plan. I don't know what to do. Ever since this whole shitstorm hit us, it's been you; Oromë, Tulkas, Nessa, Námo, and you, Varda; you're the ones seeing the danger and coming up with the remedy. I…I wouldn't even listen to my own wife," he said, watery eyes locking with hers, "when she told me of what Melkor planned to do. I didn't believe it until he had beaten me half to death." He sniffed loudly and composed himself.

"No more. From this moment on, catching Melkor is our number one priority, the reason we exist. If we can't make Arda safe for the men and women out there, then Melkor deserves the place." Nods of approval passed around the table as Manwë became more animated. "So I want to hear ideas; doesn't matter how mad they are. If you think you know how we can find him, shout it out."

"We could start cycling the satellites through frequencies," Nessa said, "in the chance one of them gives us a trace on him."

"Good start," Manwë replied.

"And I can check my sub-soil inputs across the planet to see if there's any alterations," Yavanna added. "A shuttle landing on pristine earth is going to cause a serious change in the density of the topsoil."

"Good!" Manwë called out.

"Shuttle exhaust will change the atmosphere composition in the immediate area," Ulmo chimed in, jumping on Yavanna's train of thought. "It's minute, but I could rig some sensors to detect traces of beryllium oxide. It's a long shot, though."

"Do it anyway," Manwë replied, beginning to pace up and down the head of the table as the atmosphere became lighter, livelier and full of energy.

"Give me a shuttle and five scouts," Oromë spoke up. "There are some things eyes can see that machines can't."

"Granted."

Chatter began to flow as the Valar spoke to one another of how they could help each other in their goals; a positive, communal air gripped the room. One, however, seemed removed from the energy, as though outside a bubble.

"What about you, Varda?" Manwë asked her softly. "Any ideas? Any at all?"

Varda's cheeks burned as her trump card suddenly felt hot and heavy in her pocket. She glanced around the room; the officers were consumed with vigour, united as one against their common foe. To introduce proof of her would-be deception might shatter them all over again.

From across the table, Nienna, for the first time all afternoon, flickered into life to catch Varda's gaze.  _Shit_ , thought Varda.  _She knows._ Nienna stared placidly at her friend, a small smile on her face, and nodded slowly. Varda sighed heavily and dug into her pocket.

"We could give him a call," she muttered, placing the communicator on the table as silence fell again.

* * *

The roar of the waterfall almost drowned out the cries of the black, long-winged birds that circled above it, swooping down into river to allow the current to shoot them like arrows through the water and exploding out of the tip of the cascade with a beak full of long silver fish. Ormal's light from far to the north gave everything, from the water to the birds to the soft, spongy grass at Enwe's bare feet, a golden glow.

She stood at the edge of a rocky outcrop overlooking the falls, eyes drawn intractably to the bottom, where the churning waters foamed and steamed in a long white plume that reached hundreds of feet into the air. The shuttle had travelled so long and so far that she couldn't even be sure which hemisphere they were now in.

For a brief, mad second, she considered taking that one short step forward. A five-hundred foot fall would surely be enough to destroy her, even as tough as their avatars were. The wind whipped about her, as though the spirit of Arda were willing her to do it. A little push. One small step. It would all be over so easily.

"Careful," Melkor whispered in her ear, making her stiffen with shock as he wrapped his arms tenderly around her waist. "We wouldn't want an accident, would we?"

"No," Enwe laughed softly, her heart hammering like a racehorse in full gallop. "It's beautiful," she said as Melkor rested his head in the crook of her neck.

"It's ours," he replied. "A new Ain, wild and free. The untamed world will be our domain; not some princeling's city-state."

"Is this where we're staying, then?" Enwe asked hopefully. "Are we going to stop travelling?"

Melkor sighed. "Not yet. Not until I'm sure we can't be tracked down."

"How long will that be?"

Melkor shrugged. "I'll know when I know. Until then…sit tight." He kissed her cheek and backed away before returning to Mairon and his underlings, sitting outside the shuttle at the foot of the outcrop. As she heard chatter resume among the men, she dug the communicator out from her belt buckle and brought it up to her lips.

"Varda," she whispered, "are you there?"

* * *

Enwe's tinny voice immediately silenced the blazing row that had continued unabated for almost half an hour in the meeting room. Oromë had demanded that Manwë order Varda's arrest for "attempted conspiracy with an enemy of the state", which had gone down, unsurprisingly, poorly. The other Valar had argued strongly against him with the exception of Aulë, Yavanna and Vana, who had taken Oromë's side. It had taken all of Manwë's diplomatic skill to keep them all in the same room and away from each other's throats.

Varda stared Oromë down as she slowly reached out to bring the communicator to her lips. "I'm here, Enwe."

"Sorry I haven't spoken," Enwe replied in hushed tones. "Haven't had the opportunity."

"It's fine," Varda said. "The other Valar are with me. The communicator's too small for us to locate you ourselves, so you're going to have to help us find you. Do you know where you are?"

"No, but there's a waterfall."

"How high is it?" Ulmo asked. Varda blinked, nonplussed. "Ask her!"

"How high is this waterfall, Enwe?"

Enwe stammered. "Really…really high, five hundred feet at least?"

"Enwe," Manwë called out, "which is brighter – Illuin or Ormal?"

There was a pause. "Ormal," came the reply. "I don't see Illuin anywhere. Hi, Manwë," she added awkwardly.

"How many five-hundred foot waterfalls are there in the northern hemisphere?" Manwë asked Ulmo.

"At least a dozen," Ulmo shrugged. "We need more information."

"Enwe," Yavanna piped up from across the table, "Are there trees nearby?"

"Ahm," Enwe hesitated as the Valar cast unsure glances Yavanna's way. "There's some at the bottom. They're tall and conical with deep green leaves."

" _Alumis_ trees," Yavanna said to the Valar. "They only grow on the East continent."

"There's only four waterfalls that big in the East continent," Ulmo joined in.

"We need to narrow it down further, we need  _one_!" Aulë shouted. "If we miss this opportunity he might slip through our fingers forever." The nascent optimism that had begun to grip the Valar started to wane.

"Enwe, is there anything,  _anything_ at all," Varda pleaded, "that you can tell us about where you are? Anything that looks identifiable?"

Enwe sighed. "The cliff is bare rock, kind of light grey," she said with desperation in her voice. "There's a kind of seam of red running through it, like rust-red."

"Iron oxide!" Vana called out. "There's a deposit of haematite that runs from the 30th parallel to the 50th on the East continent."

"Find that waterfall!" Manwë ordered his officers as they to their feet and assumed their part in the machine. "Oromë, get your scouts ready. This might be a chase."

"Yes, SIR!" Oromë boomed, kissing Vana goodbye before striding out of the room.

"Tulkas?" The huge, bearded man snapped to attention. "Go with him. They're not going to come quietly."

"With pleasure, Commander," Tulkas growled, snapping a salute and following after Oromë.

"What's going on?" Enwe's voice buzzed out of the communicator, lost in the tumult of activity. "Are you coming for me?"

"Yes, Enwe," Varda replied, failing to supress a laugh of joy. "Yes, we're coming. Just sit tight."

* * *

"Thank you," Enwe whispered into the communicator, before slipping it back into her waistband. Taking one last, long look at the scenery around her, she turned to head back down the ridge to the shuttle. She let out a short scream as Mairon loomed over her, his pallid skin almost yellow in Ormal's glow.

"You…you frightened me," Enwe said, forcing a smile.

"Careful," Mairon said darkly. "We wouldn't want an accident." Silence passed between them, heavy and threatening. "Would we?"

Her heart thundered up to her throat. He'd heard Melkor's words to her? If so, could he have heard her whispers to Varda? Did he suspect? The roar of the waterfall filled her ears. The precipice seemed more treacherous than it ever had. It would be so easy for him.

"We're moving out," he growled, gesturing back to the shuttle. "Now."

Enwe nodded tremulously, her lips a thin line of terror. Mairon's smouldering eyes stayed locked with hers until he turned his back, stalking back down the ridge. Enwe collapsed forward, bending double as the breath caught in her throat finally released itself, panting desperately. Mairon had always suspected her, but now it felt as though he was waiting for an excuse to eliminate her. There wouldn't be another chance for her to get too far away from him; ever Melkor's loyal dog.

Varda and the Valar were on their own.

* * *

Hours passed. Varda rubbed her eyes, dry and tired from ceaselessly staring into a computer screen. Ever since Manwë had given the order, she'd been manually calibrating satellites to scan for fluctuating wavelengths emanating from the surface as they passed over the east continent, in the vain hope they'd pick up the slightest trace of a cloaked shuttle. It was a shot in the dark, but it was all she could do.

Three knocks at her study door told her Manwë was outside. "Come in," she muttered as she clicked and typed almost mechanically.

"You don't need to be doing all this," Manwë said softly as he pulled up a chair beside her. "If you haven't had a result by now, it's never going to work." Varda sighed heavily as she pushed her keyboard away.

"It was always a long shot," she replied, her face buried in her hands. Manwë rolled closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Tulkas and Oromë got in contact," he said, stroking her hair. "They reached the waterfall about ten minutes ago; they were long gone."

"Fuck," Varda spat.

"But," Manwë reassured her, "they're on the trail. Those sensors Ulmo knocked up worked," he said grinning. "They're just a few hours behind them."

An exhausted smile crept slowly over Varda's face. "That's good," she said, "that's…really, really good." She cast her eyes down to her hands, tiny in Manwë's. "What are they going to do to him?"

Manwë's smile faded. "They're bringing him back here," he said. "Unless he makes that impossible."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Of course," Manwë replied. "We have a duty to see justice done upon him."

"I meant with Oromë or Tulkas killing him."

Manwë's silence was leaden. "If he makes it them or him," he said, his throat dry, "I choose the people who haven't betrayed me." Varda nodded sadly and rested her head against his chest.

"How did it all come to this?" She wondered aloud. "How did we fuck this up so badly?"

"What happens to every empire, in the end," Manwë sighed. "We ignored the enemy within." He swallowed hard. " _I_ ignored," he corrected himself, hanging his head.

"If we get him back," Varda asked, "and we put him on trial…who's going to judge him? I think we both know he can't get a fair trial, not here."

"He'll get the closest thing to a fair trial possible," Manwë replied. "I'll do it." Varda straightened up and away from her husband's chest.

"You?" She said, eyeing him suspiciously. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"If it were up to you," Manwë queried her, "what would you do with him?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

Varda's lip curled unconsciously. "I'd kill him." Manwë nodded.

"You and every single person on Arda." He took a deep breath. "Just before I left the Iluvátar, Mavas – he's Captain now, miracle of miracles – Mavas told me I might be the last man in the universe who might show Melkor some mercy. He was right."

"But-" Varda spluttered, "He tried to kill you! He killed dozens,  _dozens_ of our friends! Mairon murdered Eru, on his orders!"

"I know," Manwë said meekly.

"This only ends one way! We both know that! Why…why are you so convinced on giving him what he doesn't deserve?"

"Because what are we," Manwë growled, "if the first act of this government is summary execution? Without a trial? If we send the message, to the coming generations, that we are a bloodthirsty people, bent on revenge? I won't have it," he snapped. "I will listen to what he has to say, even if turns my stomach. I will sentence him to death, if I feel that is what he deserves, and if that is the only thing that will keep my people safe, even if I hate myself for the rest of my natural life. But I will do it, knowing I had every opportunity to change my mind, knowing that I had no other choice." He stood abruptly, pushing Varda's chair away. "When your time comes," he said, "I hope you never have to deal with something like this."

Varda watched her husband storm away down the corridor, a sickly feeling rising throughout her body. Although Melkor had failed to kill him, she thought, he just might have succeeded in breaking him.

* * *

Mairon's words to her earlier had changed Enwe's world. The grim faces of his minions, before just blank, hateful slates, now seemed filled with a thousand microexpressions of distrust in her direction; the twitch of a lip, the raise of an eyebrow. The way they cradled their rifles as they sat in a line opposite her, stroking them like pets, seemed less pathetic and more threatening. And at the head of the shuttle, next to the door to the cockpit, Mairon sat, spider-like, ready to pounce at any moment, barring her from her lover, his master.

The ceaseless drone of the engines set her teeth on edge as the shuttle rattled and bucked with turbulence. No windows in the hold meant the minutes bled into one another, a horrific collage of paranoia. Did Mairon plan to kill her the moment they landed? How did he plan to spin  _that_ one to Melkor? Much as he trusted Mairon, his devotion was clearly to her. Even now, she might be the only person in the world he would trust over his lieutenant.

 _Oh, shit,_ she thought to herself. The communicator. Doubtless Mairon would have figured it out by now. All he had to do was find it, and even Melkor would have no qualms over having her killed. How long did she have? Did she even have a chance?  _Think, Enwe_ , she repeated to herself over and over again.  _There must be a way out._

Mairon gave a sudden smirk, splaying his legs out on his seat, as though reading her thoughts in that eerie way of his. A glint of black metal at his hip gave her a flash of inspiration.

_I have to kill him._

But how? How could she wrestle a gun from any of these men, all of them a good foot taller than her? And eyes, always watching – even stealth was useless. It began to hit her. She was going to die.

Panic rose higher and higher in her, like barbed wire wrapping about her extremities before constricting her heart. She began to breathe harder and harder, her ribcage straining against invisible ropes as her imminent demise stretched out before her like the end of a tunnel.

"What's wrong?" Mairon asked indifferently, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Enwe couldn't respond; the panic just gripped her more and more tightly, convinced she had given him the reason he needed to kill her. She began to rock back and forth, eyes fixed on the disengaged safety lock on the rifle of the man opposite her.

"Pack it in!" Mairon ordered her grumpily. "The last thing this journey needs is a girl throwing a tantrum."

Enwe clasped her hands to her ears, blocking him out as she screwed her eyes shut. "Oh, for-" Mairon grumbled, taking to his feet to stand over her. "Snap out of it!"

"Get away from me!" Enwe screamed, backing away as far as she could as the minions shared uncomfortable looks and Mairon bristled.

"Mairon," Melkor's voice crackled over the intercom, "can you join me for a second?" Mairon growled. His day simply wasn't going as planned.

"If you're going to have a panic attack," he hissed at Enwe, "lock yourself in the bathroom, at least. I can barely stand hearing you talk, let alone scream," he spat as he turned on his heels.

"Please," Enwe cried out, "let me come with you!" Mairon scoffed.

"Why?"

"I…" She sniffled. "I'd feel better if I could see Melkor…and see the sky." Mairon's lip curled in disgust at her womanish weakness.

"If he says it's alright," he conceded gracelessly, punching in the key code for the door, which hissed open. Enwe nodded vigorously, wiping the tears that had begun to cascade silently down her cheeks, and got up to follow Mairon into the cramped cockpit.

"Mairon, I-what are you doing here?" Melkor muttered to Enwe, annoyed.

"It was the only way to stop her crying," Mairon said dismissively as he took the co-pilot's seat, throwing Enwe a poisonous look. She cast her gaze down to her feet, abashed. Melkor sighed angrily.

"Is that door closed?" He said softly. Enwe nodded. Melkor took a deep breath.

"We're being followed."

Mairon's narrow eyes widened almost comically. It took all of Enwe's acting skill to stop her breaking into joyous laughter.

"How?" Mairon hissed, the panic in his voice bringing Enwe more relief than even his painful death could.

"Oromë," Melkor said simply. "That man could track a hornwreath through a blizzard blindfolded."

"It's not a problem," Mairon said dismissively. "We have days on them, and this cloak is the closest thing to perfection physically possible. You can't hunt what you can't see."

"Yes," Melkor said sarcastically, "and what happens when we land? What happens when the shuttle needs to refuel, or needs repairing? I don't think you understand," Melkor stared Mairon down, "quite how badly this man wants me dead." Mairon rankled.

"So what do we do?" Enwe piped up. Melkor and Mairon did a double-take, having forgotten she was even there.

"Have you ever seen a cat chase a mouse?" Melkor asked her. Enwe shook her head. "Let me save you the trouble: the cat wins."

Silence settled over the trio. "So," Mairon ventured, "you're suggesting…" A sudden, rapid bleeping diverted his attention away from his sentence.  _1000 METRES TO TARGET_ , bright red letters floated in front of the viewscreen.

"There's an old saying," Melkor said, taking the shuttle into a descent. " _Chase two rabbits, and you'll lose them both._ " The shuttle touched earth with a heavy bump, sending Enwe flying into Mairon's lap, who pushed her away as though she were diseased. "Follow me," he ordered his underlings as he opened up the shuttle hatch.

They emerged into the edge of an imposing forest, with tall, black-barked trees that seemed to choke any light. Melkor strode into the forest, leaving Mairon, Enwe and his soldiers trailing in his wake.

After a mile or two, Mairon finally broke. "Melkor, what the hell are we doing?" he exploded. "Do you think we're going to outrun this bastard on foot?"

"We're not going to outrun him!" Melkor shouted back as he skidded down a moss-covered ridge. "Not now, not ever. He's too good." Mairon and Enwe hopped awkwardly down the ridge, joining Melkor at the mouth of a cave. "So we don't run. We fight."

Mairon looked at Melkor as though he had finally reached some semblance of sanity. "The shuttle is unarmed!" He said, almost pleading. " _What_ are we going to fight him with?" Melkor regarded him coolly, then gestured the pair of them into the cave.

"We're not going to fight  _him_ ," Melkor's voice echoed with the drips of water and the squeak of bats. Mairon and Enwe caught up with him where he had stopped, at the entrance to another, larger cavern. They stopped stock-still as the sight sank in; a jet-black starfighter hovered serenely in the middle of the cavern, golden light from sinkholes in the ceiling glowing and glistening from the tips of its cannons.

"A little pet project of mine," Melkor said with a cruel smile. "It's been here since before we even seeded the place, waiting. We're hitting them where they live. We're destroying that city." He breathed in the dusty, alkaline air. " _And I did see Adze, the God-emperor, reach out his left arm and destroy the sun, and reach out his right and destroy the moon. And in its desolation, the land knew peace,_ " Melkor quoted from the Book of Adze as Enwe's mouth gaped in horror. "Before the end of this day, Ormal and Illuin will fall."

* * *

Manwë stood at his balcony, looking over his frightened empire. In the street below, crewmen trudged slowly from home to work, from store to store, without enthusiasm. His heart broke for them; these people, strong enough to survive a five-thousand year journey, the burden on them as the last remnants of their species, and an all-out civil war, had been broken. Melkor's flight, Eru's death; while the crew still nominally supported him, word of mouth said confidence in Manwë was minimal and only tolerated due to the lack of anyone else even remotely qualified.

He would give anything, he realised in that moment, to give them hope again. If that meant killing his brother…

Manwë's train of thought was broken by Varda stepping through the open door and standing by his side, resting her hand on his. "Whatever you choose to do," she whispered, "you have my full support." Manwë smiled sadly.

"Thank you," he replied, wrapping his arm around her waist as she leaned in to kiss him. "Any word from Enwe?"

"None. Oromë?"

Manwë shook his head. "They're still tracking him. They're only radioing back when they land, so there's less chance their transmissions will be intercepted."

Varda nodded. "Have you given any thought to what we're going to do after this is all over?"

"How do you mean?" Varda shifted uncomfortably.

"How we're going to give them a reason to live anymore," she muttered, nodding down to the crew members milling around listlessly in the street below.

"People…get on," Manwë muttered. "Even the worst atrocities become a memory. You just get on with getting on and try to forget it ever happened."

"But how can we forget… _this?"_ Varda said, sweeping her arm over the city. Everything about it seemed tainted by Melkor's touch, ruined by his treachery. "You can't just…sweep it under the carpet."

"The alternative is extinction," Manwë replied simply. "Don't you remember how Ain suffered in the last days? What if the people who built the Iluvátar, the people who selected the crew, just gave up? There would be nothing in the universe left to say we were ever here. You keep going, because…because there's  _got_ to be something better." Varda inclined her head into Manwë's arm.

"I hope you're right," she sighed. The hush of the early evening was broken by a panicked voice from Varda's breast pocket, garbled and unintelligible.

"Enwe?" Varda called out into her communicator as Manwë stepped backwards, his heart in his mouth. "Enwe, you're unclear, I can't understand you."

Further fizzling dialogue spilled out of the communicator, almost sounding like it was malfunctioning.  _Coming! Get out-_ burst through, clear as crystal, before falling away again.

"Enwe," Varda said, quelling a rising sense of panic, "Enwe, I cannot hear you. Please say again?"

"-kor's coming! He's got a starfighter, he's going to attack the Lamp stations! You have to abandon the city, it'll be destroyed!"

Manwë felt his legs give way as he clung onto the stone parapet. Melkor designed those stations; he knew exactly what to do to make them overload and take the city with them. His eyes locked with Varda's, horror-stricken. "Enwe," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm, "are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice tremulous and racked with sobs. "We're taking off as soon as the warship powers up, I…" She trailed off as another sob overwhelmed her. "He's making me go south with Mairon while he goes north. Mairon knows," she whimpered. "He's going to kill me."

"No," Varda growled as Manwë ran back into his office to get his radio. "No, because Oromë is coming for you, Enwe, and he's going to kill that vicious little fuck, I promise you. I promise you!"

"No," Enwe sobbed. "No, he won't. He can't." She devolved into a sobbing mess as Varda clocked her husband standing, bowed with sorrow, in the door way.

"Varda," Manwë whispered, his face grey as ash. "Varda, there's only one shuttle."

Varda's stomach fell through her body as she realised the choice Manwë had made. "She's innocent in all this," she whispered. "Don't do this. Don't you dare."

"Melkor has a warship," he said helplessly. "Even if we evacuate the city in time, he could pick us off one by one until he's the only one left alive. We need to destroy that ship." Varda clenched her fist around the communicator as tears began to stream.

"You're killing her," she whispered hoarsely. "That psychopath is going to murder her and you're letting it happen." Manwë's lip trembled.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, "but that's part of being a leader." Varda's brow furrowed in fury as she advanced on her husband, hand outstretched.

"Tell her," she said softly, proffering the communicator. "Tell her."

"Varda, don't-"

"Don't what? Don't make this harder for you?" She spat. "No. You want to be a leader, you let your crewwoman know your decision. Tell her." Manwë averted his gaze and shook his head. "TELL HER, YOU FUCKING COWARD!" She screamed. "TELL HER YOU'RE LETTING HER DIE!"

"It's okay," Enwe's voice came crackling through the communicator, softer and calmer than before. "Really, Varda, it's okay. He must be stopped."

"Enwe, don't say that. Don't act like this is okay," Varda muttered, her chest heaving with violent breaths.

"Of course it's fucking not," Enwe laughed miserably, "but that's the way it is. And who knows," she said brightly, "maybe I'll kill him before he kills me. It's a tall tower, accidents happen…"

Varda choked back tears. "Stay alive," she said. "No matter what."

"I promise," Enwe whispered. "Got to go. Talk later, I hope." The communicator went dead with a fizzle of static. In the silence, Manwë clicked his radio receiver and spoke.

"Oromë. Change of plan," he muttered into it, unable to meet Varda's gaze as he walked back into his office, leaving her slowly slumping to the floor of the balcony.

* * *

Enwe and Mairon's eyes were locked like rutting deer for the entire hours-long journey to the southern polar region. They sat just feet apart on opposite sides of the shuttle, both bodies tensed and motionless like gunfighters waiting on the draw. To draw away the panic, Enwe recalled the last conversation she had with Melkor.

 _It's not goodbye_ , he'd said with that adorable smile of his. The smile of a killer. A smile you could forgive even as he slid the knife in.  _We'll meet up this time tomorrow, at the coordinates I gave you. And this world will be reborn once more._ She'd told him she loved him. She felt him believe it. He'd said it back, and she knew he meant it, for whatever it was worth.

As she reached the end of the conversation, Mairon's pallid face returned into her field of vision like a spectre of death. It was as if he was enjoying making her look at the face of her killer.

"I don't like you," he said, out of nowhere. Enwe did a double-take.

"You say that like it's meant to be news to me," she replied coldly.

"You're a glory-hunting, two-faced whore," he continued, as blandly as a newsreader. "You don't belong in this enterprise, and you're only here because you're knocking off the boss, who you're only with out of…let's say, a pathological attraction to powerful men."

"And you're an odious, vile little toad whose crush on 'the boss', as you call him, is so pathetically obvious it honestly makes me pity you a little," Enwe replied, her imminent death strangely emboldening her. If she'd never get another chance to say it, she thought, why not now?

Mairon edged closer to her, leaning forward like a predator hunching down to pounce on its prey. Enwe unconsciously stiffened and pressed her back into the wall. "But like it or not, we're stuck together. So shut up, do as you're told, and let's get this done." Enwe took in a long, slow breath.

"Okay," she said, relaxing minutely.

"And if you fuck this up, I  _will_ shoot you," Mairon added. "Do  _not_ think I'm joking."

"The thought of you making a joke," Enwe replied slowly, her heart threatening to break loose from its moorings, "has never even crossed my mind." Mairon gave a strange, almost impressed smirk, before settling back in his seat in silence, in which he remained for the rest of the journey.

* * *

The shuttles had already begun leaving Almaren. The first wave were returning from the shore of the west continent, as the next two hundred crewmen lined up with their worldly possessions – or rather, as much of them as they could carry – strapped to their backs.

"Shuttle One, embark!" Nessa yelled over a loudspeaker as the queue nearest her in the massive courtyard began to file into the shuttle. "Shuttle Two, embark!" One by one the lines began to shorten as officers further down the courtyard organised the straggling, struggling mass of people into order. From the balcony of the Palace, Ulmo and Manwë watched the evacuation play out.

"This is not a defeat," Manwë said as if into thin air. "This is a victory. Melkor will be captured at the cost of not one Ain life."

Ulmo eyed him warily. "A retreat is hardly a victory," he opined. "The destruction of a city is not a victory."

"Stones," Manwë replied. "Bricks and mortar. Meaningless things. They can be rebuilt."

"Is that how you're justifying this to yourself?" Ulmo asked. Manwë's pride rankled as Ulmo came dangerously close to insubordination.

"I have had to make some damned distasteful decisions in my command of this colony," he admitted. "But at every turn, I have done what will keep my people alive and safe. Do I lose sleep over that? Of course. But when they go to sleep, they wake up. That's all that matters."

"Manwë," Ulmo groaned, moving closer to his friend, "when – IF Melkor is brought back alive…please make the right decision." Manwë smiled mirthlessly.

"And which would that be?"

Ulmo's dark eyes bored into Manwë's. "The one which keeps your people," he said slowly, "alive and safe." The pair broke their gaze and stared down into the courtyard. "How are Irmo and Estë doing?"

Manwë checked his watch. "Any second…now."

As if on cue a rumble from the east of the city split the air. The officers in the courtyard below tried their best to keep the calm, reminding the public that this was a scheduled demolition. The mighty marble monument which was once the hospital, strewn with creeping plants and crowned with flowers, collapsed into the ground at alarming speed, kicking up a spectacular cloud of dust which blew hot and gritty across the city. The rumbling, however only increased, smashing windows and sending finials cascading to the floor as a hellish roar emanated from the ruined hospital.

"Well," Ulmo breathed, "bugger me."

A mountain emerged from the rubble, rising inexorably upwards. It demolished buildings as it forced itself through the hole the controlled demolition had left until it rose clear of the city, a ball of rock almost a mile around hovering surreally in mid-air. With another mighty roar it began to travel westwards, casting a huge shadow over the city as it passed.

"You do realise," Ulmo whispered, transfixed by the sheer size of the flying mountain, "if that thing crashes, we're all dead anyway?"

"I try not to think about it," Manwë replied. As he watched the Tank take flight across his city, fleeing for the safety of the mainland, he thanked Aulë for convincing him to fit in this escape plan should Almaren ever become inaccessible to them for some unforeseen reason. "You should get going," Manwë said. "In the event Varda and I don't make it, you're the next in line. They'll need someone."

"Not planning on going down with the ship, are you?" Ulmo replied. The look on Manwë's face told him this wasn't the time for levity. He coughed uncomfortably. "See you on the mainland," he bade him farewell. Ulmo's footsteps quickly disappeared beneath the rumble of the flying mountain ahead and the chaos in the courtyard below. Manwë watched until all that remained beneath him were the officers organising the evacuation; his cue to leave.

Varda stood in the doorway, her eyes smouldering with disdain. The atmosphere between them was hot with discomfort. "The shuttle's ready," she said. Manwë nodded.

"I'm coming," he replied dumbly. Varda turned on her heels and made for the exit. "Varda," Manwë called out as he abandoned the balcony with one last look at his doomed city. "Varda, you know I had no choice." Varda stopped dead in her tracks, hands clenching into fists.

"You had a choice," she whispered. "It was years ago. It was months ago. It was every day between the day we signed up, and the day we took feet. And you always, always made the wrong choice. And now, they've come back to bite us all. I hope you're happy," she said before storming out through the door.

Manwë glanced up to the ceiling of his office where Adze was painted, resplendent in his glory, ruling over his legendary empire.  _To think,_ he thought to himself,  _I once thought that could be us._

For the last time, he left the Palace.

* * *

Up close, Illuin was impossibly huge. The sheer scale of it made Enwe feel like she was dreaming. Three kilometres high, six hundred metres around at its base, with a glowing ball of white nuclear fire at its summit. The idea that the six of them could bring it down felt like a mouse challenging an elephant.

"Alright. One last time," Mairon spoke up as his men readied and loaded their rifles, securing their body armour. "We break through at the top floor, by the fusion control room. These towers are skeleton crews only; I'm picturing three technicians, maximum, and maybe one security officer. If it moves and it isn't one of us, kill it. Cover me while I overload the system, and when I say so, leg it. And you?" He looked pointedly at Enwe.

"Don't touch anything, don't do anything, don't say anything," she repeated the words she knew he wanted to hear. Mairon eyeballed her as he cocked his pistol.

"Let's go," he muttered, taking his position at the front of the troop as the shuttle guided itself to the landing platform at the top of the tower. The hatch flew open and the six of them charged out, clearing corners and checking corridors as they made their way to the control room with Enwe bringing up the rear. After seemingly endless right and left turns they lined up along the wall outside the control room as Mairon placed an explosive charge on the door. Enwe knew what was coming next.

The charge blew and Melkor's small army barrelled into the room and opened fire. A brief spurt of returning fire cried out, quickly silenced. A few screams followed, also silenced. A long, agonised moan lingered on the air and drilled through Enwe's head as she sat slumped against the wall, legs frozen with horror, until Mairon's unmistakable click-clack steps and the resounding echo of a pistol shot ended it. Two or three minutes of intense work and activity followed, until at last Mairon gave the order to move out. They charged past Enwe, barely even registering her, as they ran back to the shuttle. Only at the last second did Enwe realise she'd be lost if she didn't follow them, and with a supreme effort forced her legs to work again and follow the sound of their footsteps.

As she reached the landing pad, the soldiers were filing back into the shuttle as Mairon overlooked his handiwork. The artificial star at the top of Illuin, even through the six feet of clear carbon it was wrapped in, was already getting brighter.

"You didn't do anything, you didn't touch anything, you didn't say anything," he addressed Enwe. "Well done."

"Loth as I am to impress y-"

Enwe's retort was cut short by the click of Mairon's pistol, aimed directly at her.

"I…" She stammered. Speech was failing her. She circled around Mairon slowly, hands raised, until she reached the edge of the landing platform and the three-kilometre drop below. "I did what you asked. I stayed out of your way."

"I know," Mairon said, almost apologetically.

"Then," she said, breathing harder and harder, "then…why?"

Mairon smiled nastily. "I told you," he said softly. "I don't like you."

The pain hit her first; hot, sharp and overwhelming, like a punch to the gut. It overloaded her senses so much she barely heard the shot. Within seconds her legs had turned to jelly, and she only had time to press her hand to the bleeding wound in her abdomen and watch as Mairon hopped jauntily back onto the shuttle before she tumbled off the edge of the world.

* * *

The silence in the Commander's shuttle, the last to leave Almaren, was unbearable. It felt like a funeral procession more than anything else, and the very real ill-will between man and wife only exacerbated the sensation. Aulë, Yavanna and Nessa made up the numbers, having stayed to the very last to help the evacuation.

A rustling, crackling noise broke out from Varda's breast pocket. Hoping against hope, she fished the communicator out as Manwë leaned in, heart in mouth.

"Enwe?"

An ear-splitting buzz came through the channel, like a strong wind into a microphone. "Enwe, can you hear me?"

"'Msorry," came a strangled reply. Varda's heart felt like it had been crushed underfoot.

"Enwe, what…what's…"

"I made a promise," came the slow, torturous reply through waves of static and fuzz, "I couldn't keep." Varda moaned in horror as Manwë buried his head in his hands.

"Enwe," Varda squeaked, unable to get words out.

"S'okay," Enwe mumbled. "I'm flying."

"Oh, dear Gods, he pushed her off," Nessa muttered, clapping her hand to her mouth. The crew in the hold barely even breathed as Enwe's last words echoed tinnily around the room.

"Enwe, I'm so sorry," Varda groaned as she began to sob. "I'm so sorry, I'm so, so…so…"

"Don't apologise," she whispered past the whistling of the wind. "You were the best friend I ever had. And you're here for me, at the end. That's all you can ask of a friend, really." Manwë hung his head and wept silently as Aulë and Yavanna held each other tightly.

"We had some good times, didn't we?" Enwe continued as Varda bit her hand until blood trickled down her wrist in thin rivulets to keep from screaming. "Even if I was a bit of a bitch sometimes," she giggled before moaning in pain.

"You were never a bitch," Varda whimpered. "You were just…you. And no-one ever appreciated it. Not even me."

"Ah, you did alright," Enwe replied weakly, her voice almost inaudible over the rushing wind. "You stuck with me longer than anyone else did. There's no-one else I'd rather be talking to right now."

"We," Varda began before collapsing and recovering, "we did have some good times. Some great times."

"Remember that night," Enwe said, "on K-deck…me, and you, and Manwë and Melkor…I never wanted that night to end. That was the last time…the last time I ever felt…" She lapsed into silence.

"Enwe?" Varda called out as the wind continued to roar through the communicator. "Enwe!"

"The was the last time I ever felt-"

The wind suddenly stopped. A noise like the crunch of gravel underfoot gave way to total silence.

Varda's communicator dropped from her fingers as Manwë gathered her in his arms and she let out a howl of pain so loud, she could have bet Melkor heard it.

* * *

Almaren was gone in the blink of an eye. As the towers collapsed, their man-made stars plowing down into the earth with them or roaring off into the distance like comets, the power surge they sent flooding into the city sparked a nuclear explosion which engulfed the island. As the smoke cleared, not a single scrap of the island, its buildings, or any civilisation at all, remained. Melkor watched it unfold from his starfighter via satellite feed, making his way to his rendezvous with Melkor and Enwe. Finally, he thought. Finally, some peace.

An explosion in his ship's port side sent it careening down, skimming the tops of trees before he pulled it back up. Desperately checking his fuel lines, another explosion at his starboard sent him barrel-rolling across the sky. "Report!" He bellowed as he struggled to get his ship under control.

"You are being attacked," a placid male voice replied.

"What?" Melkor spat. "Impossible!" Another explosion rocked the ship, and he felt his engines begin to fail. "Show target!"

His rear view showed a heavily-modded shuttle equipped with weaponry in close pursuit. "No, no, no, NO!" he roared as he attempted evasive manoeuvres. But his starfighter, advanced in every way as it was over his enemy, was already too badly-damaged from the sneak attack, and a fourth explosion crippled him.

"We are crashing," the computerised voice said helpfully as he screamed down towards the ground. "Assume the safety position." Melkor slapped the button on his dashboard which fixed his arms and legs to his pilot seat and surrounded him in a thick, viscous liquid which stayed suspended in mid-air in a perfect shell. As his protective casing formed around him, the starfighter slammed into the ground.

"Blimey," said Tulkas, whistling, as he watched on the shuttle's cameras. "Do you think he came through that?"

"Let's go and ask," Oromë grunted as he began his landing.

The falling ship had left a mile-long scar in the pristine forest, with scraps of metal and chunks of landing gear strewn about the churned earth like toppings on a cake. Tulkas, Oromë and their five soldiers marched, rifles raised, down the track, checking every piece of wreckage large enough to hide a body until they finally found Melkor, still in his protective pod, half a mile in.

"He alive?" One of the soldiers called out.

"Unfortunately for him," Oromë shouted, "yes, he is." The soldiers surrounded the pod and cocked their rifles, raising them as the pod began to shake and an arm thrust through the thick liquid. Melkor pulled himself out like a beast of burden being whelped, coughing and hacking as he vomited thick, green fluid, his entire body slick and shiny. He lay prone on the ground, wheezing, as Oromë closed the distance between them.

"Melkor," he growled, rifle muzzle in his quarry's eye, "you are under arrest." Melkor, against all expectations, burst into laughter.

"Arrest?! Who's left to try me?" He called out, giggling merrily. "Almaren is gone! The Ain are gone! All that's left are you, me, and my soldiers. Kill me if you like, but they'll have something to say about it," he chuckled.

Oromë slung his rifle over his shoulder and squatted next to Melkor's head. "Actually," he said softly, "Almaren IS gone, but no-one's dead." Melkor squinted at Oromë, nonplussed. "We evacuated the city."

"Impossible," Melkor scoffed. "How did you…" The colour drained from Melkor's face as the story unfolded before him.

"She was a good girl, your woman," Oromë sighed. "Braver than I will ever be. Without her, we'd never have caught you. We'd never have evacuated Almaren. She saved the world," he said slowly. "And now she's dead." Melkor's eyes widened into saucers as he shook his head furiously. "Afraid so. Mairon, apparently. No way to go."

"This isn't fair," Melkor whined, his lip curling like a chastened toddler. "No…no! It's not fair!"

"No…no, I don't suppose it is, is it?" Oromë opined, before a heavy fist between the eyes turned Melkor's world black.


	23. Part 3: Crescendo - Chapter 23

Olórin slid a glass of warm, frothy ale down the bar towards Tulkas, who grabbed and downed it in a single fluid motion. The huge man winced and coughed as it went down, almost smashing the glass in his huge fist.

“Gods above, Olórin,” he groaned, “What do you put in this stuff? Varnish?”

“Just for flavour,” Olórin replied, retrieving the glass before Tulkas crushed it. He’d lost five in the last few days, and he couldn’t afford any more losses. Tulkas shook his head sullenly.

“Time was, mate, your homebrew was the crème de...thing,” he said. “I can’t say I’m a fan of your new direction.”

“Got a problem?” Olórin called out as the entire bar turned as one to join in with the refrain: “Blame Melkor!” Mirthless laughter rippled around the steel-walled hut, followed by the unmistakable sucking of air through teeth as the patrons took a joint swig of their lethal brew.

“Well, we’ll all have the chance tomorrow,” Tulkas continued. “Reckon they’ll call witnesses?”

“I hope not,” a crewman behind him replied. “I was hoping to live to see the end of this trial.” More laughter, a little more genuine than before, filled the hut. “If he’s to die...who’s to do it?” Silent musing descended upon the inebriated patrons.

“Form an orderly queue,” one of them piped up. Another explosion of laughter. It was weak-hearted laughter, but laughter all the same. It seemed the only thing that really got the Ardans' spirits up any more was an imminent execution.

Months had passed since the destruction of Almaren, and the populace of Arda had spent that time corralled in a shanty town of flat-pack steel huts, sleeping twenty to a unit. Livid yellow plasma lights inside and out glowed and dimmed in regular cycles to try and soothe the inhabitants’ shattered circadian rhythms, thrown into disarray by the destruction of the LaMP stations and the constant night that had enveloped Arda ever since.

But the lack of light was just the start of their problems. Entire lives had been left behind on Almaren to be consumed by nuclear fire. Olórin’s entire stock of homebrew and paraphernalia was the thin end of the wedge; billions of petaflops of computing power had been abandoned in the Surveillance tower alone, and enough food to feed the city for a year had been left to burn. For weeks they’d been reduced to hunter-gathering, with Oromë and his scouts heading out twice a day to harvest game and firewood.

As the camp had taken shape, a rudimentary agricultural society had taken hold; crewmembers alternated between plowing and seeding fields and setting up ultraviolet lamps to act as a surrogate sun, helping to build yet more units for sleep and work space, and sewing coats and blankets to keep out the bitter chill of a sunless world. Work kept the populace occupied and tightly-bound, with gatherings each night around the ever-burning fire in the centre of the camp to take their share of roasted meat and dried vitamin supplements, and to sing songs from the Ain they had left aeons ago.

As their voices filled the air, Manwë watched from the door of his hut hundreds of yards away, where their song was just a distant drone. A brief moment of pride in the imperturbable spirits of his crew gave way to the ever-present bitterness that had consumed him since they had first landed on the eastern shore of the west continent and looked back to see a mushroom cloud reaching up into the stratosphere, flanked by mighty spheres of crackling light as the LaMPs had overloaded and destroyed their home. Many had fainted; many had fallen to their knees and wept. Manwë had had to be pulled out of the sea by Ulmo and Aulë as he’d unconsciously run forward into the waves in the direction of Almaren, hundreds of miles away. Dismissing painful memories with a grunt, he turned and sealed himself inside.

Still Commander by unanimous assent, Manwë had the only private sleeping quarters in the camp. It reminded him of his berth on the Iluvátar; bare and spartan, despite his high rank. A pair of single cots were pushed together against the far wall, a metal chest at their foot. A table and chair in the far corner, where he took his meals alone, and a workstation in the other. He crossed to the foot of the bed and rummaged through his chest, pulling out the data stick he’d received from Mavas. It felt hot and heavy in his hand; Eru’s last message to him, recorded before his untimely death on the planet he’d entrusted to Manwë’s care. After months, he’d still found it impossible to bring himself to watch it; he barely needed a dressing-down from a man he couldn’t answer, but the alternative was even more painful to consider; he couldn’t bear to hear words of praise and encouragement from a man he had failed so badly.

Sighing deeply, he dropped it back into the depths of the chest and closed it. The plasma lights had begun to dim; another day was ending, and another day trapped in squalor was soon to begin. With nothing left to do, Manwë pulled his boots off and got into his cot. He glanced over to its twin, with no idea when it would be filled tonight.

* * *

Varda sat in the corner of Olórin’s makeshift bar, nails scratching down the side of a grubby glass. It seemed she had found herself in there more often than not after the end of her duties, to the point where her favoured corner table was considered out of bounds to all others. Her stomach churned and broiled with the effects of the brew, its acidic taste still burning at the top of her gullet. The half-hearted laughter of the other patrons bubbled and echoed around her as the yellow plasma lights bled into the grey walls. She threw another mouthful of ale down her throat mechanically, now barely even tasting it. She grimaced as it further upset her stomach, beating it down with hateful thoughts.

_I had a palace_ , she thought bitterly. _I lived like a fucking Queen_. Another mouthful. _I had friends, and we had peace_. Another mouthful. _Look at me now. Living like a rat in a sewer, with scraps of roasted deer for dinner every night and a five-minute shower every other da_ y. Another - the empty glass reeked of petrol and stale bread. She slammed it down.

“Olórin,” she called out, slurring slightly. “Let’s have another.”

The landlord gingerly set down the glass he was cleaning and made his way over to her. “Commander, don’t you have duties to see to in the morning?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied, raising her head wobbily to look him in the eye. As her eyelids drooped, Olórin’s blue eyes swimmed and shimmered in her field of vision. He winced sympathetically. “Another, please. Is that a problem?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Commander,” he replied softly, taking a seat opposite her. “I have a duty of care to my customers, and you…” he trailed off, blushing.

“And I, what?” She said combatively. “I’m drunk, is that what you’re saying?”

Olórin chuckled. “Yes, Commander, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, shaking his head apologetically. “I think the Commander will be wondering where you are.” Varda shrugged.

“He doesn’t care,” she slurred. “‘Course he doesn’t. You’ve seen him. Barely comes out of that bloody tent of his. What’s he doing all day? Hmm? Doesn’t tell me.” Olórin coughed uncomfortably, casting an eye back to the other patrons. Thankfully, all of them seemed to be too interested in getting quietly wasted to be paying too much attention to what the colony’s second-in-command was saying.

“I just think,” he began again, “it would be better if you went and got some sleep.”

“Do you know,” Varda retorted, her voice amplified with alcoholic anger, “what I’ve lost? Hm? How many friends did you lose?” Olórin’s kindly face hardened into dangerous lines, blue eyes blazing; the dangerous anger of a good man.

“We all lost things, Varda,” he hissed lowly, trying not to cause a scene. “You know good and well who I...what I lost,” he checked himself, gulping hard to stop his voice from breaking. “You think that gives you an excuse to drink yourself into oblivion night after night? To shirk your responsibilities? There are people here who look up to you, people who need you.”

“Well, I don’t need them!” Varda shouted, sweeping the glass aside with a vicious arm. Olórin flinched as it smashed on the steel wall and the other patrons finally looked up from their own drinks. “I don’t need any of you!” She continued shouting, taking to wobbly legs. “I have three, right, three actual, proper...three ACTUAL friends in all the world, right? One of them’s dead, one of them’s a...a shhhhhhadow of the woman I used to know, and the other one nearly got-"

“The other one’s alright, last she checked,” Nessa interrupted her from the door, cheeks flushed red and brows knotted in an unimpressed furrow. “Varda, I suggest you calm down, right now, or you know what I’m authorised to do.” She tapped the yellow band around her arm; the insignia of that night’s nightwatchmen. Varda eyed her warily.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered darkly.

“Oh, she would,” Tulkas said from the bar. “And more besides,” he muttered.

“There’s more than one cell,” Nessa called out, sending her lover cringing back down over his drink. “Varda, please. You’re causing a scene.”

Varda looked out over the dozen-or-so patrons watching her from the corner of their eye; some she knew, some she didn’t. From all of them, she could feel a very palpable judgment. Shame overwhelmed her bitterness and she relented, her lip curling.

“I think I...I might need some help,” she whimpered. Nessa nodded sympathetically and offered an arm, which Varda took gingerly as she sauntered out of the hut.

Out in the ever-present chill, Varda stiffened and nearly fell from Nessa’s grip. “Easy, there,” Nessa cooed, wrapping both arms around Varda’s waist to steady her. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“No,” Varda shook her head, to Nessa’s consternation. “No, not yet. I...I want to see him.”

“That’s where we’re going, Varda,” Nessa said through gritted teeth, feeling as though she were talking to a child. “We’re going to see Manwë.”

“No,” Varda spat. “Not him.” She fixed Nessa with a hateful gaze. Nessa’s mouth gaped open. “Take me to him,” she demanded.

“Gods, Varda, I...I can’t,” Nessa whispered. “It’s against every regulation. We’d both get done for insubordination.”

“I need to see him,” Varda repeated, the steel in her voice giving way to desperation. “I need to, I have to…” She sniffled loudly as tears began to flow unbidden. “What if he...? I’ll never get to tell him...to show him…” Nessa bit her lip, moved by her friend’s sorrow.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Just follow my lead.” The pair walked in step stiffly down the main thoroughfare of the camp, keeping out of sight of the few crewmembers still on the streets after lights-down, until they reached the very outskirts of the camp, where a lone structure stood some yards away from the rest, its door guarded by armed nightwatchmen.

“Stay here,” she told Varda, grabbing her face and looking straight into her eyes, still swimming and unfocused. “Understand? Only come when I signal you. Got it?” Varda nodded wobbily, slumping against the wall of a hut as Nessa went over to the lone structure. Some time passed - Varda couldn’t even begin to guess how much. Eventually, a double-flash from a torch caught her attention, and she made her slow, unsteady way over to Nessa.

“Told them there was a report of a fight over at the quarry,” Nessa explained, fumbling through a ring of keys. “That should keep them away for a good fifteen minutes or so, but as soon as I knock on that door, you come out or I’m dragging you out. Clear?” Varda nodded deeply, her heart thundering in her chest. Nessa slid a key into the lock and unlatched the door.

“Don’t do anything stupid, now,” she muttered as she stepped away from the door. Varda breathed deeply and walked inside.

The darkness within was almost total, dispelled only by the dull glow of the plasma lights at minimum strength. In the weak light, she could only just make out the four walls of the hut and the cramped cage at its centre, barely three metres cubed. A white-clad figure stirred from the cot at its centre, its only adornment. Every nerve in Varda’s body burned and sang with the need to find a weapon, her throat itched to scream.

“Get up,” she spat, her teeth grinding furiously. The white figure moved groggily. “I said get up!” Varda grabbed the torch from her belt and flung it at the cage, which resounded with a clang. Its inhabitant tumbled out of the cot and rose shakily to its feet, flicking matted black hair out of its face.

“What...what is the meaning of this?” Melkor hissed, squinting as even the low light burned his eyes and cast his aggressor in silhouette. “I do have some rights, you kno-” He lost his words as he recognised Varda’s outline. “And what, exactly, are you doing here?” He grumbled.

“I wanted to see you,” Varda whispered, walking slowly towards the cage. “I wanted us to have this...moment together.” There was a trace of something very nasty in her voice; something almost sadistic. “I wanted to watch your last night alive.” Melkor’s teeth glinted in the yellow light.

“What makes you so sure this is my last night alive?” He retorted. “We both know Manwë’s got a yellow streak in him a mile wide. It’s not like he’s never forgiven me wholesale before. Call me mad, but I’m giving myself fifty-fifty.”

“You’re not mad, Melkor,” Varda replied, swaying slightly. “I used to think you were, but no...you’re not mad. I think you’re perfectly sane.”

“Oh, thank you, that really does mean a lot to me,” Melkor replied, his grin getting even wider.

“I think you’re a sad, lonely little boy, who never grew up enough to realise that he would never be loved by anyone, because you’re just so...fundamentally unlovable.” Melkor’s grin slowly faded.

“You loved me, once,” he replied. “Don’t try to deny it.”

“I don’t,” Varda replied. “I never have. I loved you with all my heart, but...you let me down, so badly. And I never even began to think just how badly you could let me down. How badly you could let your brother down.” Melkor spat in disgust. “Oh...oh, is that it?” Varda mocked him. “Is this still just your pathetic little way of getting one up on your big brother? Let me tell you something, Melkor - the reason everyone prefers Manwë to you? He’s...he’s just BETTER than you. In EVERY way. And you are the only person in the world who never, ever realised that.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Melkor growled. “I pulled the wool right over his eyes. If brains were shit, he couldn’t fertilise a plantpot.”

“You see? You see?" Varda shouted. “You think that fooling someone who loves you unconditionally makes you cleverer than them?” Varda scoffed, laughing giddily. “You just don’t get people, do you? You don’t get how they work.”

“I got how she worked,” Melkor replied coolly. He smirked as he felt Varda’s knuckles whiten. “Useful little moron, that girl. Now she really did love me.”

“She never loved you,” Varda muttered, her heart threatening to burst from her chest. “Not ever. She wanted to love you, so she tricked herself into thinking she did, just like I did. But she didn’t love you. She feared you. All the way to the end.”

Melkor whistled, reaching a hand out to grip the bar. “Still smarting over that, are we?” He replied. “I’ll admit, I was none too pleased when I found out what Mairon had done. But,” he chuckled, “the thought of the pain you’d be in when you realised your only real friend in the world was gone...I haven’t had an erection like that in ye-”

Varda’s foot flew out in a swift arc, belying her intoxication, and connected brutally with Melkor’s fingers with a sharp crack. He cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor, cradling his shattered hand. Varda flung herself towards the bottom of the cage and reached her hands through the bars, grabbing onto Melkor’s shirt and pulling forward, forcing his grubby, bearded face into the iron as he squealed and whimpered.

“When you go out there tomorrow,” she growled, “and your brother condemns you to death, I am going to make sure I'm the last thing you see before your miserable life ends!” Melkor screamed and struggled futilely as Varda forced his face harder and harder into the bars, baring her teeth with a bloodthirsty yearning to watch him die.

“Get off of him!” Nessa screamed into Varda’s ear as she wrapped her arms around her and pulled her back. Varda yelled and twisted like an enraged animal, but Nessa’s arms were too strong, and she found herself being pulled away from Melkor as he rolled back into the darkness until she and Nessa went sprawling over the cold earth outside. Varda curled into a ball and began to sob as Nessa locked the door behind her.

“Why,” Varda choked as sobs wracked her body. “After everything...all he’s done to you...why wouldn’t you let me…”

Nessa grabbed her friend by the shoulders and forced her upright. “Because I am not going to watch you become a murderer!” She growled. “Now get up, we have to get you home. The other nightwatchmen will be coming back any second, and if they see us, we’re dead.” She pulled Varda up and slung her arm over her shoulder, beginning to drag her back to her quarters. “Whatever you did to him, they’re not going to believe him - and even if they do, they’re not going to care. Unless you do something really stupid, like get caught at the scene, so move those fucking legs!”

Panic suddenly rose in Varda and overruled the well of sorrow she’d found herself in, and she began to jog with Nessa away from the structure and back down the central thoroughfare, heading towards Manwë and Varda’s private hut at the head of the colony. After some nerve-shredding minutes of travel, they finally arrived, and Varda took her arm from around Nessa’s shoulder with a groan.

“Varda,” Nessa panted, bent double from the exertion, “make me a promise. After tomorrow, whatever happens to him - don’t do this again. You’re better than spending your life at the bottom of a barrel of shit homebrew.”

  
Varda nodded, breathing heavily as she leant against the door jamb jelly-legged. “I suppose,” she gasped, “you’re right. Thank you for...for everything,” she stammered as Nessa chuckled, exhausted, and walked away. Hauling herself somewhat upright, she stumbled through the door to the hut, where she could just about make out Manwë’s sleeping form on the left hand side of her bed. Tottering to the opposite cot, she collapsed, poker-straight and face down, into a deep and immediate sleep.

* * *

The neon glare of the huge floodlights that had been set up around the central square of the camp felt like some kind of divine punishment. Varda’s eyes stung and head felt as though it were splitting open. In the absence of anything else, right now, she’d see Melkor hanged for robbing her of every pair of sunglasses she’d owned.

She sat at Manwë’s left hand on a specially-constructed raised platform, upon which most of the Valar were seated. Beneath them, selected senior members of the Maiar, and beneath them, a row of security personnel stood guard in a line that reached all the way around the square. Bleachers had been erected through the night in a horseshoe, leaving just a small gap in the far end for access. There had only been room for a few hundred of the colony, and so others stood lining the grids of streets that struck outwards from the centre of the camp, hoping to hear what was transpiring within.

Manwë had ordered the Valar not to wear dress uniform, feeling it was no longer appropriate. The order had trickled down, and thus the entire crowd were dressed in their workclothes; many of them dirty, grubby and oily, having come straight from a shift in keeping their fledgling camp running. Chatter suffused the square, until Oromë strode forward and barked for silence as he got proceedings underway.

“We are convened today,” he began, “by the authority of the High Commander of Arda, Manwë Eredh, son of Meridan, to witness judgment against Melkor Umor, son of Meridan. I would remind you that regardless of the crimes committed by the accused, we still have a duty to see true justice meted out. Therefore, anyone speaking out of turn will be held in contempt of court and imprisoned. Consider yourselves duly warned.” He paused as his words sunk in. “Bring him forth.”

The words echoed down the strip as they were repeated by the security officers that lined the thoroughfare to Melkor’s lonely prison. Some minutes later, the man himself was marched out of his cell and met by a detachment of armed guards who formed a tight square around him, a human shield against any trigger-happy vigilante who might be waiting in the crowd, and began their slow, synchronised march forward.

At his right hand, Ulmo placed a tender hand on Manwë’s knee and nodded silent support towards him. Manwë gave a sad smile, inclining his head in thanks. He turned to look at Varda, white as a sheet and clearly suffering. He gripped her hand and squeezed it tightly, mouthing I love you. Minutes passed in agonising silence as the square of guards grew larger in the distance, until the clomp-clomp of their boots rattled everyone’s teeth.

“Halt!” Oromë cried out as they reached the centre of the square. The formation came to a sudden stop and parted as one to expose Melkor. An intake of breath hissed around the bleachers, hundreds of tongues bitten as one as hearts swelled with hatred. Manwë gulped drily. His brother looked a broken man; one hand swaddled in bandages, his white prisoner’s smock grubby with dirt and skin mottled with spots and sores. His hair had matted together into ugly dreadlocks, and a patchy beard had broken through on his cheeks and chin, like a teenaged boy’s first attempt at manhood. But those eyes, dark and malevolent, seemed as alive as ever.

“Melkor Umor,” Oromë began with pomp and solemnity, “you are hereby accused of-”

“Yes, we’ve done this bit,” Melkor interrupted him. “Let’s just get on with it.”

“I will hold you in contempt!” Oromë screamed at him before Manwë called upon him to stand down.

“He’s quite right,” he replied. “We’ve had the start of this trial. We’ve even had the middle of it - he confessed, but refused to accept the authority of the court. Well, I’m here to tell you, Melkor,” he piped up, addressing his brother directly, “that your confession has been accepted as full admission of guilt on all charges. We will now proceed directly to sentencing.”

The atmosphere in the square changed; it was pregnant with the bated breath of a crowd preparing to celebrate, like the announcement of an award. Manwë looked around, at the eager, desperate faces of his crew, and breathed in deeply.

“It is within my power, as Commander, to sentence you to death, should it be my wish - should it benefit, or at least, should I FEEL it benefit, the colony. This privilege is uncountermandable and irrevocable, and it is mine alone.” He paused and swallowed. “One man should not have that much power,” he continued, feeling his voice falter slightly. “As such, you are not to be sentenced to death.”

The crowd rose to their feet as one and hurled abuse at both Melkor and Manwë, with one or two members flinging themselves out of their seats into the square, only to be brutally brought down by the ring of security officers that lined the front of each bleacher. The clamour grew to riotous levels, and the security teams started to level their rifles at the crowd in panic.

Ulmo stared daggers at Manwë, his chest heaving with anger. “What is the meaning of this?!” he spluttered. “Do you mean to start a riot?” Manwë turned his head from his friend, unwilling to countenance his insubordination.

“STAND DOWN!” Oromë boomed over the chaos, running from team to team to get them to lower their aim. “STAND DOWN! BE SILENT FOR THE COMMANDER!” Slowly, the crowd took their seats again, still bristling and rankling like a wounded animal ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Manwë could feel the crowd was a hair’s breadth away from rioting. A rivulet of sweat dripped from his brow.

“Melkor will be punished,” he called out to the crowd. “But that punishment will be decided by a convention of myself and my fellow senior officers,” he explained, gesturing to his colleagues at his side. Ulmo’s mouth opened and closed dumbly as the other Valar looked to each other and mouthed stunned questions. “We have seen, first hand, what happens when a man assumes the power of life and death over those he deems to have wronged him. I will not be that man, Arda! I will not!”

A few murmurs of assent punctuated the silence, followed by cries of “Traitor!” and “Hypocrite!”. “Call me whatever you like,” Manwë replied, ordering the security officers to stand down with a wave of his hand. “That’s the good thing about living in a free society. That’s exactly what this man would have taken from you,” he said, pointing at Melkor, who stared intently at his feet. “So I say we celebrate his failure. I say we revel in our ability to think what we like and say what we see fit, we rejoice in the fact that we, as a people, can decide how best to deal with those who would destroy us. Such is my decision,” he finished, exhausted. “Take the prisoner away.”

The guards who came with Melkor slowly reformed their formation and marched slowly out of the square, back towards the prison building. As they stomped out of sight, the people of Arda slowly made their way out of the square, their mood unmistakably depressed. “I want to see you all in the meeting hut in one hour,” Manwë addressed the rest of the Valar. “And Irmo, Estë? I’d like you to come with me.” The doctors nodded and made their way to Manwë’s side as he descended the steps, leaving the rest of the Valar sat in stunned silence together.

Varda hadn’t been able to move since the pronouncement had left Manwë’s lips. She’d frozen, unable to process what she had heard, unable to come to terms with the knowledge that Melkor wouldn’t pay for his crimes with his life. Nienna’s hand on her shoulder shocked her out of her reverie, and she found herself borne up by strength she never knew her friend had and led down the stairs.

“I’m sure that Manwë feels his decision is the only way forward for the colony,” Nienna muttered to her as she led her out of the square. “I certainly detected no falsehood in his words as he spoke.”

“But what if he’s wrong?” Varda mumbled. Her tongue felt thick and numb, her lips unresponsive.

Nienna shrugged. “Then he’s wrong. But at least he’s wrong for the right reasons.”

* * *

The Valar sat in uneasy silence in the meeting hut, awaiting their Commander. No-one had dared say a word, lest another officer shout them down and cause a civil war. Even Nessa had kept utterly silent, to everyone’s amazement.

At length, the doors opened and Manwë entered, flanked by Irmo and Estë. The Valar rose instinctively, immediately bidden to sit as Manwë took his seat. He looked each one in the eye, one by one, before beginning.

“Alright, let me hear it,” he sighed. “Tell me why it’s a bad idea.”

“Melkor is too dangerous to live, Manwë,” Tulkas muttered, his voice softened with shock. “You’ve seen what he can do. What he’s prepared to do. He’s a maniac.”

“He killed our brothers, our sisters,” Vana interjected. “Hundreds of them. One life doesn’t even begin to redress the balance, but it’s a start!”

“You are not safe,” Ulmo muttered, his dark voice cracked and broken with concern, “while he lives. His purpose, his...his raison d'être is to kill you. Don’t you understand that?”

“Of course I understand,” Manwë replied, annoyed. “I’m just saying...I think there’s a better way. I think we have a third option.” He cast his eyes to Irmo, who cleared his throat and began.

“The Commander wanted to discuss with us...a proposal,” he said, barely meeting his colleagues’ gazes. “To see if it was possible. I believe the premise is sound, and it is feasible, but…”

“But, we’d need to agree unanimously on it,” Manwë finished for him.

“Right,” Irmo interjected. He swallowed hard before continuing. “The plan is, to disconnect Melkor’s avatar. His physical body will remain alive within Lórien, but he will no longer have an active presence within the world.” Murmurs of confusion spread slowly.

“I don’t understand,” Oromë asked. “Will he be aware of all this?”

Estë shrugged. “We simply don’t know. While it is physically possible, there’s no way to determine whether he’ll be conscious or within a state of delta sleep. When you’re in the Tank, both read identically.”

“What’s the benefit of all this?” Yavanna asked.

“We don’t have the means or supplies to keep Melkor imprisoned indefinitely,” Manwë replied. “Also, as has been pointed out, his continued existence is a threat we cannot brook; and additionally, we can’t even guarantee HIS safety from the rest of the populace, in which case we might as well have executed him ourselves.”

“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Nessa asked, cocking one eyebrow. “Commander, what aren’t you telling us?”

Manwë sighed. “It’s my belief that with Melkor conscious through what’s essentially an induced coma, we may have a chance at...rehabilitation.”

Cries of dissent and disbelief flew up. Manwë leaned back in his hair, arms spread wide, having expected this reaction.

“Chief, you can’t be serious!” Aule thundered. “The man’s got more screws loose than a Alfridian shuttle!”

“With all due respect, Commander, while I agree we can’t afford to imprison him ourselves, I believe you are allowing your personal feelings to colour this issue,” Oromë replied calmly.

“Melkor! Rehabilitated!” Tulkas laughed madly. “You might as well try to toilet-train a hornwreath!”

“Doctors,” Manwë silenced them all. “Tell our colleagues what you told me.”

Irmo took a deep breath. “It’s possible. Psychotropic remapping, it was called - it was a mooted therapy for the criminally insane back on Ain, just before the war. It’s never been attempted, but the premise is sound enough.”

“It consists of identifying positive memories within the subject’s subconscious; memories of family, of love, of contentment,” Estë continued for him, “and stimulating those neural pathways in a comatose subject. In this instance, our use of avatars is actually quite a bonus; one of the reasons it was never attempted was because it would take decades just to identify the appropriate memories, let alone run the program long enough to see any kind of change whatsoever - if there even is any.”

“So, the short-term effects are good, the long-term effects are - on paper - good,” Manwë resumed. “It leaves just the question of ethics. Do we have the right to do this? Change everything a man is, play with his mind like that?”

The majority of the Valar agreed at once, with others eventually relenting after seeing the way the group thought. Manwë smiled.

“No,” Nienna said. All around the table stopped and stared at her, amazed at the forcefulness of her answer. “No, Commander, I cannot tolerate this.”

“Nienna,” Manwë replied, stammering with surprise, “you, of all of us...Melkor’s probably done more-”

“What you propose to do,” Nienna interrupted him, her shrill voice rising, “is exactly what Melkor did to me. Invade his mind and force yourselves into it. Having heard you say for months that you will not sink to his level, I refuse to believe that you can genuinely think this justified.”

“She’s right, Manwë,” Varda muttered. “You have no right to force someone to change just because you don’t like how they turned out.”

“If it’s a choice between that or death?” Nienna asked, gulping. “Much as it disgusts me, then...I choose death.”

Silence covered them all, leaden and ugly. Manwë sighed deeply and pulled a smooth metal bar from his pocket. “I was given this by the last native Ainur I will ever see. I’ve had it for months, and I just couldn’t bring myself to look at it.” The Valar cast worried glances between each other, fearing the Commander might finally have lost it. “This is a message from Captain Eru, to me. Intended to only ever be viewed by my eyes. I watched it for the first time this morning,” he said, looking at Varda, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’m going to show it to you all, because I think you need to hear the message it contains. After that I will destroy it, and we will never speak of it again. Is everyone okay with this?”

The Valar, shocked, nodded as one. Manwë extended the port on the data stick and inserted it into the small console in the centre of the table. Eru’s face filled the far wall.

_Manwë. This message is for you, and you only. I will entrust this information to no-one else._

The old man paused and drew in a deep breath.

_I am Captain Eru Aman of the city-ship Iluvátar. What follows is my final testament and last expression of wish._

_In a secret committee meeting of the Iluvátar Mission high command, it was decided that, should the sterility of our species prove irreversible, each planet terraformed by the Iluvátar was to be seeded with Ain genome, in the form of genetically engineered spores. Thus, over the course of hundreds of millennia, lifeforms genetically identical to Ainur would rise, their evolution accelerated by our science._

Eru looked down, like a child admitting a secret.

_Manwë, the reason I allowed Melkor to join Arda Project was because I saw an opportunity. An opportunity to write a legend; the warring brothers who, when one is at the mercy of the other, reconcile and become stronger than ever. As I record this, Melkor is imprisoned and awaiting trial. I have no doubt in my heart that, should he be sentenced to death, you will use your veto as Commander to overrule the decision and show clemency. Your decision may not be understood by your people, who demand blood payment for their loss. But that is the strength of a true leader; to make unpopular decisions. In time - long after we are gone - it will be held up as the epitome of mercy._

_The Valar are chosen not simply because of their skill to lead. They are chosen because they are paragons. They are chosen because they represent the best of our race; medicine, art, science, protection. Love. These examples must be held up and preserved, for the race that will follow us. You will become their Gods._

__

_Melkor must live._

__

The recording ended abruptly, leaving the Valar in stunned silence. Slowly they turned as one to face Manwë, who held up the data stick.

“This is the Will of Eru,” he told them. “We must obey.” Slow, shocked nods rippled around the table. Nienna let out a breath she had been holding for minutes, and acquiesced. Manwë’s eyes locked with Varda’s.

“Agreed,” she whispered. With the final assent, Manwë broke the data stick in two.

* * *

The Valar’s decision was announced to the colony the following morning. It didn’t sit well with the more bloodthirsty and vengeful of the crew, but the majority accepted it as the best compromise they could have made; no more Melkor, regardless of the how, was a good situation.

It was decided to keep the “psychotropic remapping” classified; Estë reasoned that if Melkor knew, on any level, his mind was being tampered with, he might construct psychic defences strong enough to counteract it and render the entire enterprise useless. Nienna, who knew the scope and power of Melkor’s mind more keenly than anyone, concurred. Thus, Melkor’s official sentence was decided: 1,000 years in an induced coma, or until the problem of their sterility was solved and their avatars were no longer needed; whichever came soonest. Melkor was given a day and a night to settle his affairs; as it transpired, there was only one person he wished to see before sentence was carried out.

"There is one compromise we could make," Manwë said softly, sitting hunched in a metal chair. "Give us the location of Mairon and your co-conspirators and I can see to it that your sentence is halved." Melkor laughed without joy.

"Five hundred years asleep instead of a thousand," he replied sardonically. "A real incentive, that." Manwë leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "That's not a deal, and you know it. Besides," Melkor muttered, "I don't know where they are anyway. I told Mairon to lose himself in Arda's wastes. You'll probably never see him again."

"You know, I could live with that," Manwë replied sarcastically. Melkor scoffed.

“You should have killed me,” he told Manwë, sitting with head bowed on his cot.

“Maybe,” Manwë replied. “But I don’t believe that was for me to decide.” Melkor scoffed.

“So self-righteous,” he spat. “You really think you’re getting points for this, don’t you?”

“Not everything is a game, Melkor,” Manwë groaned. “Not everything is some kind of test to see how well you can manipulate people. There are some things you do, simply because you must. Because it is right. Don’t you understand that?” Melkor fixed him with a beady eye.

“I did what I did in the belief that it was right,” he retorted. “I did it because I felt I had no other choice. How is that any different?”

“It’s different in that my way doesn’t kill people!” Manwë replied.

“A thousand years in a coma? I’ll be LUCKY to come out a vegetable on the other side!”

“This is pointless,” Manwë growled, getting to his feet. “I don’t know what I expected. I just hope that whatever...monster has possessed you, we can get him to give my brother back."

Melkor sank down onto his back as Manwë slammed the door behind him, settling down for his last night of real sleep for a millennium.

The next morning, Melkor was led back out into the square as he had been the day before, only this time there was no crowd lining the route. The people of Arda had mostly elected to leave them to get on with it; only a few, who needed to see sentence carried out for themselves, watched from doorways and from behind the bodies of security officers. In the central square, Manwë, Varda and Ulmo were waiting, flanked by Irmo and Este with a remote link to the Tank. A few dozen crewmen lined the very edges of the square, watching in eerie silence like carrion birds waiting to feast. Melkor was uncuffed and unchained, and allowed to walk forward to within arm’s reach of his brother.

“For what it’s worth,” Manwë told him, “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” Melkor replied peevishly. Manwë looked down, hurt.

“Are we ready?” He asked Irmo and Este, who nodded silently. “Begin,” Manwë ordered, his throat dry and heart leaping.

“Think on your sins, Melkor,” Manwë implored him. “Be my brother once more.”

Melkor locked eyes with his older brother for a split-second, before closing them as though to sleep. With a flash of static, he was gone.

“It’s done,” Irmo confirmed. An uneasy, guilty feeling spread across the crowd, as though they had somehow just witnessed a cowardly act; an execution without the catharsis. Manwë breathed out steadily, bending double in shock, as Ulmo and Varda each gripped a shoulder.

“Easy now,” Ulmo said, squeezing Manwë’s shoulder.

“What do we do now?” Varda asked as Manwë straightened up, staring to the west and the mighty, flat-topped mountain that loomed in the distance.

“We rebuild.”

**  
  
**

**END OF PART THREE**

  



	24. Part 4: Antiphon - Chapter 24

The silent stars glistened overhead, as they always had and always would, as Oromë set his shuttle down. as the thump of landing reverberated through the ship and his body, he breathed deeply, steeling himself for another journey out into the eternal night of eastern Arda. He'd lost count of how many times he'd returned to the shuttle, mud-spattered and bleary-eyed, with absolutely no sign of his quarry, and the futility of his task was beginning to gnaw at even his stout resolve.

Pulling strands of thick, matted hair from the night vision goggles he wore on his head more or less permanently, he settled them over his eyes and made his way to the rear, pulling on his bandolier and lowering the ramp. With the flick of a switch the darkness was transformed into yellow-tinted day, the starlight magnified a thousand fold to bathe Arda in artificial sunlight. It was a world that didn't exist outside of Oromë's eyes, but it was one of the only things keeping him sane.

Soft, springy grass swaddled Oromë's feet as he stepped down; boots had been the first to go. Favouring speed and silence, he'd taken to wrapping his feet in leather to allow him full range of motion on the hunt. "Latitude, 43 degrees 16 minutes," he muttered into his headset. "Longitude, 113 degrees, 3 minutes. Initial signs of unfriendlies: zero. Beginning reconnaissance." The phrase had been branded into his tongue like a prayer. He idly wondered if he'd ever said any words in his life as often as he'd said those.

_I love you._

The face of his wife rose to the front of his mind on a wave of guilt, banished with military ruthlessness. This wasn't the time.

Oromë's obsession with Mairon had festered over the long years since the final fall of Melkor's rebellion. Even as they built their new city, a shining jewel beyond even Almaren's splendour over decades and centuries, it had not been enough to silence the voice inside him which whispered: "You have failed". The killer of dozens of his friends lived free; eventually, he could excuse himself no longer.

Cradling an assault rifle, he began his sweep of the area. A mighty lake lay to the northwest, so vast the other shore disappeared beneath the horizon; to the east, endless forest. The last few recces had been concentrated around areas Oromë himself would think to frequent if he were a fugitive, and a supply of fresh water not half a mile from a vast and impenetrable forest was exactly where he would like to hide himself; despite having spent long and lonely years composed of little more than light, some human instincts were still too strong to master, and none of them more so than thirst. All he had to hope, bizarre as it was, was that Mairon was that smart.

Vana returned to the back of his mind, unbidden. Her lack of understanding of Oromë's pain had driven a wedge between them; left him isolated and angry. She told him if it was over; that the rebellion had been crushed centuries ago, and the dead were just bones or dust. She'd never understand. In a way he was relieved when she'd reacted had she had when he told her of his plan - it meant she still cared.

She wasn't the only one to react violently. Nienna had pleaded with him to resume their sessions, Yavanna scolded him with the fury only a protective older sister could bear. Only Námo had seemed entirely resigned to the situation, and even he seemed more non-committal than enthusiastic. Manwë, the only one who could actually stop him, had approved his request, and that was all that had mattered.

Without the Lamps, time bled into itself on Arda. As the years had passed to these unwilling immortals like days, hours passed like minutes and Oromë left kilometres of footprints around the lake before he realised how far he'd walked. Taking rest behind a fallen tree trunk lying half-rotten not far from the water's edge, he pulled off his goggles and winced as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As he chewed on a stick of anonymous protein, sucking crumbs from the moustaches that dangled untrimmed over his mouth, he wondered absentmindedly what he would do if - when, he corrected himself - when he found and captured Mairon. He had spent great lengths of time in the wild before, but by now the only thing that reminded him how long he'd been away were his regular logs. The wilds of Arda felt like home more than Valinor ever had; even his appearance was beginning to reflect that. His great bulk had been streamlined into a leaner, tighter form, adapted for endurance. His fatigues had been augmented with mosses and mud from across Arda to make his camouflage more effective, and he had rubbed his unruly hair and beard in dirt to darken them. The dirt clung to his skin, worked its way into his pores and wrinkles, giving him the appearance of an old and terrible warlord or wizard. When he caught his reflection, sometimes he could make out the shaven-headed, mustachioed officer he'd once been. Sometimes, he couldn't.

"Keep in touch", Vana had asked him as he'd set off. The danger of his transmission being interrupted and his position discovered was the first thing to come to mind, but he'd ignored it and replied, "I will." He'd kept up to it, at first, contacting her on an encrypted frequency every day. Then, every other day. Then every week. After that, it was hard to say. He reassured himself that Varda's satellites would always let them know where he was.

Unless, he'd realised in a panic, Mairon had hacked them. In a fit of paranoia, he'd disabled anything which could be used to track him. He belonged to Arda now.

The near-silence of the endless night was broken. Above the lapping of the waves and the whistle of the wind, the sound of movement. On instinct Oromë snapped into a kneel, bringing his assault rifle to bear over the tree trunk. He squinted into the darkness, fumbling blindly for his goggles. Scanning left to right, his trigger finger itched to let loose. He readied for the shot as he caught a glimpse of movement to his right, breath held and body still. This was it. This is where he got his man.

It was not to be. A wide-antlered stag threw its head back and bellowed, beating its hooves into the ground. The breath that Oromë had held leaked out slowly, his finger unwrapping from the trigger. It was too much, he supposed, to expect it to be that easy.

In the second his eyes broke from the stag an unnatural noise brought him back to readiness. A groan of pain. The stag lay on its side, not twenty yards from him, bleeding into the sand. Oromë's heart thundered as he saw the shaft of an arrow protruding from the stag's neck. It looked like he wasn't alone after all.

A pale, black-clad figure emerged from the darkness, almost melting out of it, to kneel by the stricken animal and pull the arrow from its neck, seconds before slitting its throat and ending its suffering. Long black hair draped over the kill like the robes of death itself, and Oromë's stomach tied itself in knots. He tamed the desire to blast his target to hell, and set up for a crippling shot to the kneecap. Mairon was going to suffer.

A voice in the darkness broke his concentration and caused his target to look up. Oromë's gasp caught in his throat like a bone - it was a face he didn't know. Not Mairon, nor one of his lieutenants. Those faces had been bored into his mind over the century he had been hunting them, but this was the first new face he had seen in millennia.

Two more figures - more strangers - emerged from the darkness and began gutting and skinning the stag. Oromë's head began to swim. Had Nienna's warning come to pass? Had he finally gone mad? The three figures seemed alike in bearing and countenance; tall, excessively lean and dark-haired, with pale skin and sharp features. The swiftness which which they had downed the stag, the accuracy of the shot by nothing but starlight, made Oromë think twice about opening fire; one could easily take him down by the time he'd taken the other two out, he reasoned.

Leather bags dripping with bloody meat and pelt, two of the figures rose and made to leave. The first one, the stag's killer, remained a little longer, ostensibly to perform some kind of ritual over its carass. Oromë watched transfixed as the strange creature pulled its hair back into a knot and took a knee. As it mouthed silent words, Oromë stretched as slowly as he dare to reach his goggled and get a better look at it. His mouth hung open as the creature's face resolved in perfect clarity. Grey, almond-shaped eyes, iridescent in the darkness, and pointed ears. Oromë had no idea what he was looking at, but it definitely wasn't human.

After less than a minute the creature concluded its business and vanished into the ever-night with unnerving speed. It took significantly longer for Oromë to be able to move from his position, hands and legs numb with shock. He sat, stunned, against the tree trunk for some time, his half-mad mind struggling to process what he'd seen. At length he took to his feet and stumbled over to the stag, now reduced to bare bones. They were picked clean without any sign of violence, like it had been left to rot for a season - all in just a few minutes.

"God's balls," Oromë blurted. "God's bloody balls."

* * *

A cold breeze blew in from the West, like breath from the stars. They shone in perfect array above the wine-dark sea which teemed and broiled far beneath Manwë's favourite lookout spot, the highest tower on the sheer cliffs of Taniquetil. From his lonely eyrie he surveyed the heavens and the earth alike, watching artificial light from the East tease the edges of the everlasting night above. Far beneath him, the forcefield that protected the cliffs from erosion cracked and glowed as it was battered by the raging waters.

_Beautiful, isn't it?_

The blue sparks of the forcefield stirred a long-forgotten memory in Manwë. The Iluvatar seemed like a different life to him now; like he was trespassing in the memories of a man he didn't recognise.

_Surely, you agree._

The familiar old hum and crackle of the forcefield enveloped him, transporting him back to that forgotten time.

_It's beautiful now. Whether it'll be beautiful when we're done with it…_

Melkor's words rang in his ears, leaden with the irony of thousands of years. It was only comparatively recently they had discovered the fruits of his labours all those centuries ago; huge, impassable mountains were sprouting along Arda's northern latitudes, and sea ice had choked the northern passage between the two continents. And yet, even as further proof of Melkor's long and bitter duplicity was uncovered, Manwë was himself stricken with guilt. He had broken his promise. The end of Melkor's sentence had long since passed, and yet he was not here. But as just one casualty among many in a disaster that had shaken their society to the point of collapse, he was hardly missed, and far from the most mourned.

The distant rumble of a storm far out to sea echoed off the cliff-face, and Manwë's heart ached. The sea had once been a friend to Arda, peaceful and calm. But ever since its self-styled master abandoned land for water, it had been treacherous, destructive, and wrathful. "I wish I could help you," he muttered, laying a hand over the forcefield and letting the electric charge send the greying hairs at his arms standing up, his whole body thrumming with energy.

"Help who?"

The forcefield let out a loud crack as Manwë pulled his hand away in surprise. He turned to face his wife, bare arms goosepimpled with the cold in the dark blue gown which had become her trademark. Though the chain of command had remained intact through the long ages, the dress code - as also evidenced by the sky-blue robe Manwë wore tucked around his body like the emperors of Old Ain - had somewhat fallen by the wayside. Manwë smiled shyly and gestured out to sea. "He's in one of his moods."

Varda nodded. "Well...he always was a drama queen," she replied. The two chuckled softly. Hiding grief with levity was something they had become masters at. "How can you stand to stay up here so long?" She asked, rubbing her arms. Manwë shrugged.

"I like it," he replied, running his hand along the flawless stone of the tower's crenels. "It's peaceful. Quiet. And the wind, the rain, the cold; they remind me I can still feel like I used to. Up here, I feel like I... _exist_ ," he blurted. "I feel... _human_  again. I feel young. You know?"

Varda nodded and offered her hand to her husband. The two came together, embraced and kissed, and walked over to the eastern side of the tower, gazing out over the city they had built. Almaren had been a fine, even beautiful city, but with the time the Ain had had at their disposal they knew only its superior would be a fit dwelling for them as masters of the planet.

From horizon to horizon its marble gleamed gold in the glow of manmade sunlight, towers and spires so high they seemed to pierce the clouds. Buildings of steel and glass rose amongst them, mighty beyond words and blinding to behold. Statues big enough to strike them down stood like sentinels over the matrix of streets, depicting heroes of Ain past and myths from the four corners of the old land - but none stood as tall or as lovingly carved as the one which stood just beneath Manwë's tower; Eru, in the armour of a King, standing watch over the people of Arda, forever.

A subtle change in the light drew Manwë's eyes out beyond the edges of the city. At the very edge of the horizon, in the centre of the continent, Aulë and Yavanna's greatest creation began to enter its second phase; the golden light began to gradually fade and a cooler, silver light rose, flooding the world in twilight of a colour they still couldn't properly name, but which everyone longed to see come around. If those still on the Iluvatar could see the wonder they had created here, they would be hard-pressed not to called the Ardans gods.

"Now  _that's_ beautiful," Manwë muttered, chest swelling with pride.

"Cold," Varda replied, burrowing into Manwë's side. Manwë wrapped his arm around his wife.

"You always did love the sun," Manwë laughed, before sad silence fell over them both. Nostalgia had become anathema amongst the Ardans, toxic. The yearning for things past had seen more than one of their number lose their mind and leave the city to spend eternity alone - or worse. Varda lifted her head away from her husband's chest, her long, black curls cascading from her shoulders.

"Oromë sent another message," she said. "He wants to address us all."

Manwë groaned. "Did you tell him anything?" Varda shrugged.

"I told him I'd ask you."

Manwë hunched over the edge of the tower, grinding his fist into the stone.

"The bloody cheek of him. The man disappears," he growled, "for nearly a hundred years, and the first we hear from him in decades is this madness about fairies! Damn his stubborn pride, why can't he just admit he was wrong?"

Varda's silence drew Manwë's gaze. "I don't think he's  _lying_ …"

"Well then, the man has cracked!" Manwë replied. "And I can't say I'm surprised - imagine  _you_  spent a hundred years without seeing another soul. I'm amazed he hasn't forgotten how to talk by this point."

"Maybe so," Varda retorted, "but what's more important right now is that this is how we can get him home. He's sick," she said softly, laying a hand over Manwë's. "And we all miss him, especially Vana."

Manwë slowly laced his fingers with Varda's "I do miss him," he replied. "Sometimes I wish I'd never let him leave."

"I don't think any of us knew how far gone he was," Varda soothed him. "We're all at fault. He was hurting and we didn't see it."

Manwë let out a ragged sigh. "I thought if he...got it out of his system," he spat, as though the thought shamed him to remember.

Varda scoffed mirthlessly. "He never did do things by halves." They stood holding hands, watching as the silver light began to shine brighter on the horizon and bathed the city in rose gold. "So what do we do?"

Manwë straightened up. "Call everyone in. Give him what he wants. Maybe we can convince him to come home."

"Everyone?" Varda asked.

"Everyone."

Varda's eyebrows rose dramatically. " _Everyone?_ " She repeated, eyes flickering out to sea. Manwë smiled tiredly.

"Try."

* * *

"Just you get a fix on him, love," Tulkas muttered to Nessa as she watched the elevator buttons light in succession, hurtling up through the Surveillance building. "You get those coordinates and I'll be in a shuttle and off to drag him back sooner than you can spit. Well, not that you ever-"

"It's not that easy," Nessa interrupted him. "We've been trying to locate him for years, but he must have modified his shuttle to be radar-invisible - fuck knows how he did it - because until he radioed the other day, I honestly assumed he'd gone to live in a cave somewhere."

Tulkas smiled bashfully. "Gods, he always was good."

"I'm glad  _you_ appreciate him," Nessa grumbled as the elevator flooded with light, passing out from within the building to snake up its outside. "For me and Varda, it's been nearly a hundred years of worrying the stupid bastard might get himself captured and tortured. Imagine Mairon - if he's still out there - getting his hands on our access codes!"

Tulkas' laugh started low and grew into a hurricane. "Oromë," he chuckled, "give in to torture? Have you been smoking with Olorin? Not a chance." Nessa huffed. It was like talking to a brick wall with a beard.

"When the remit of your job extends from 'punching things' to intelligence, I'd like to see you be so flippant," she said as the lift slowed to a halt at the highest floor; the Valar's private and impenetrable communications hub. "Game faces," she said, elbowing Tulkas in the ribs. The doors opened and they stepped out into a long meeting room, flanked on both sieds by full windows that stretched to the very top of its impossibly high ceiling. The polished metal table, studded with data terminals to allow all of the Valar to access an eternity's worth of information at once, glistened in the early "morning" glow.  _Commanders Nessa and Tulkas_ , a computerised voice announced as they exited the elevator.

"Nessa, hi-" Varda turned and began before casting her gaze downwards, annoyed. "I  _told_  you," she said, "this is an  _official_ meeting." Nessa shrugged.

"Yes," she said, dumbly. "And?"

Varda fixed Nessa with an embarrassed glare. "Clothes!" she hissed. "Quickly!"

"Oh!" Nessa squeaked, glancing down at her naked body. "Sorry, so sorry-" She closed her eyes and was immediately clothed in a shiny blue figure-hugging one-piece. "Is it okay? It's the last thing I…" She coughed uncomfortably. Varda sighed.

"It's fine," she replied. "It'll do. And it's better than what Irmo will be wearing, I suppose." Nessa laughed as she and Tulkas took their seats.

"Spoilsport", the huge man muttered to Varda as he passed her.

Within minutes, the gathered Valar were awaiting only their Commanders; Námo and Vaire, clad as ever they were in mourning black, held hands in silence at the foot of the table; Aulë, red-bearded, and Yavanna in her green-stained dress sat either side of Vana, who, in her tattered dress uniform and her cheeks pinched and gaunt, seemed little more than a ghost. Nienna sat between the two parties, visibly uncomfortable. Opposite her, as Varda had predicted, Irmo and Estë sat, resembling more a forest come to life than the two highest-qualified medical professionals on the planet - as the long years had taken their toll they had appointed themselves leaders of the growing movement to reclaim the "Old Ways", and adopted the dress of the Priests of old, wearing bark like armour and stringing creepers through their long and unkempt hair. A momentary understanding of how mad they had all gone over the millennia tickled at the back of Varda's mind, but the same coping mechanism that had allowed them to retain some degree of functionality having lived a hundred times longer than they ever should have beat it down mercilessly.

Manwë entered from his ante-chamber and the Valar rose, still willing to pay their titular commander some respect. He bade them sit with a nod and leaned against the back of his chair as he clocked the empty seat to his left. "Shall we start without him?" he asked Varda softly. Varda shook her head.

"It'd only upset him. I'm sure he'll be along soon."

The soft  _ding_ of the elevator caused everyone to flinch and turn uncomfortably to the doors.  _Commander Ulmo_ , the computer announced. Bare feet slapped on the marble floor as Ulmo trudged his way to Manwë's side in silence. The Valar's eyes turned as one to follow him, wanting to greet him but unsure what to say. After such a length of time, "How do you do" didn't seem to cut it.

Ulmo nodded to Manwë as he reached his seat, kneading and worrying the headrest nervously. "Good morning, Sir," he mumbled, as though he'd forgotten how to speak.

"Good morning, Ulmo," Manwë said gently. "Glad you joined us."

Ulmo's eyes flickered upwards briefly, meeting Manwë's for the first time in years. To Manwë, it was as if a different person had assumed his old friend's name; the kindly glow of Ulmo's eyes was gone, replaced with a brittle hardness; the eyes of a man who had broken. The rest - his skirts of still-dripping kelp, the thick, matted dreadlocks which hung below his waist, his chest-length beard and the cape of sodden, algae-covered fishnet - was incidental. The light had gone. Ulmo grunted softly in acquiescence.

"Please, sit", Manwë whispered, his throat suddenly very dry. Coughing, he took his seat and gaxed out over his crew. "So," he began with forced brightness. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" A few nods, some awkward coughs. "Well...we all know why we're here, so let's get on with it, shall we? Varda, please open the communication channels."

Varda nodded and tapped at her keypad, bringing holographic globes floating from the data terminals that studded the table. "Channels open," she murmured.

"Oromë, this is Commander Manwë, come in," Manwë spoke as officiously as he could manage. In the corner of his eye he saw Vana's chest swell and collapse faster and faster as Nienna reached over to grip her hand. The soft hum of static made their skin crawl. "Oromë, the frequency is secure," Manwë continued. Around the table, faces fell into frowns one-by-one; their waning patience with Oromë close to exhaustion. "If I were Mairon, I'd know your position by now, anyway."

"Prove it."

The voice, rough and raspy, sent a shockwave through the Valar. Was that really Oromë? Where was the deep, chest-rumbling bass that had brought such fear to his enemies, and such comfort to his friends? Had his exile changed him that much, or was this all an elaborate ruse?

"Oromë, it's...it's me," Manwë laughed. "Have you really forgotten my voice?"

"Can't be sure," Oromë replied. "Not over radio. He knows your voice. Could be using distortion. Could be tricks." Aulë threw his hands up to the sky in silent fury, clasping them over his face. "So, go on then. Prove it."

"Prove it?" Vana spoke up, leaning over the table. "How's this for proof, you...you arsehole!" Yavanna reached out a hand to grasp her sister's shoulder, batted away. "Ninety-eight years, Oromë! We haven't heard from you in ninety-eight years! How do you even  _remember_ what Manwë sounds like? What your wife sounds like?"

The connection crackled. Leaden silence filled the room, like a balloon growing and stretching beyond its limits.

"Vana?" Oromë replied, low and fearful. "I…" He trailed off into silence.

"What?" Vana shouted, incredulous. "What can't you say? What can't you say to your wife after leaving her alone for ninety-eight bastard years?" Uncomfortable looks shot around the room as Vana's chest seemed to swell enough to burst her buttons. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"This was a mistake," Aulë grumbled, wrapping his arm around Vana's shoulders, who shrugged it off, growing stronger and standing straighter by the second.

"It's not just me!" Vana continued, tears beginning to prick her eyes. "Do you know what you've put us all through? You abandoned us! Your wife! Your friends! Your duty! How were you keeping us safe all this time? How did your actions keep your people safe? I'll tell you, Oromë, they didn't! You've  _failed_ us!"

The air around the room felt uncomfortably warm as the connection cracked. "I-" Oromë choked, cut off by a noise which could have been static, or a sob. "I'm sorry."

"And?" Vana replied.

"And...you're right. I have failed," he muttered like a chastened schoolboy. "I didn't find him. I don't think I was ever even close. I'm sorry. To all of you."

The Valar looked up at Manwë who cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "It's quite alright, Oromë," he replied softly. "It always was a long shot, let's be honest. But what's important to us now - your friends - is that you come home. You've been out on patrol too long, soldier," he said, attempting to sound upbeat even as the room was colder than the eternal night outside Aman.

"Can't, Sir. Not yet," Oromë replied to a chorus of groans and profanities. "You know what I've found here. This could change everything." Manwë sighed.

"Yes", he began, wringing his hands as his staff grew more and more agitated, "about that...Oromë, Nienna would really… _appreciate_ it if you'd-"

Manwë was cut off by a distorted burst of raucous laughter from the other end of the line. Several of the Valar exchanged glances; some of them couldn't remember ever hearing Oromë laugh aloud before. "You think I'm mad?" He said at length. "I'm not! I'm the most sure I've been, Sir, in a long, long time."

"Oromë, you said you saw - what is it?" Manwë said, bringing Oromë's initial statement up on his data terminal. "'Non-human humanoid beings, reminiscent of the fairies of legend'. Doesn't that sound, well...a little deranged?" The connection crackled in the silence that followed.

"Alright,  _maybe_ ," Oromë replied, "but only to those who haven't seen them - I have proof! I have pictures!"

"Well, by all means, transmit them," Manwë replied, gesturing for Varda to stream the conversation to everyone's terminals.

"Commander," Nienna whispered, "please don't indulge him. You may reinforce his delusions." Manwë stretched out a hand to silence her.

"Whenever you're ready, Commander," he prodded the silent Oromë.  _Trust me_ , he mouthed. Nienna rankled.

"Transmitting now," Oromë said as a status bar floated in the middle of the table. Seconds later, a fuzzy, out-of-focus image took its place; figures in the distance on a starlit shore. Manwë cast a knowing glance at Nienna.

"Oromë, those could be any-"

"Still transmitting," Oromë interrupted him. Another image took the place of the first; closer, and more in focus, with a marked difference in the order and shape of the dark figures in the centre of frame.

"Seals," Tulkas scoffed. "They're seals!"

"Not seals," Ulmo grunted to no-one in particular, drawing everyone's eyes. "Not inland. Saltwater species." The group held its breath for more of enigmatic proclamations, but that was all they got before Ulmo lapsed into silence once more.

"Not seals," Manwë replied to Tulkas sardonically. Another image, even closer than the last, appeared before them; it seemed Oromë had taken his images on the hoof, edging closer and closer to his subject. Three human-like figures were clearly visible, their dark outlined subtly different from the deep blue night that surrounded them. One had raised its head to present a distinctive high-nosed profile. The Valar grew uneasy.

"Okay, that's...erm," Manwë stammered. "That's something."

The fourth picture sent a ripple of gasps and whispers around the room. The three figures had turned to face Oromë, their white skin and large grey eyes almost blinding under the starlight.

"What are-" Aulë muttered, gulping hard, "w-what are we looking at here?"

The fifth and final picture followed, and the Valar cried out as one in surprise: a close-up shot of the middle figure, frowning and baring straight, white teeth, clearly aggrieved by Oromë's attention. He wore a shirt of black fur, strengthened with leather around the chest and forearms, with long, straight black hair so shiny it seemed to reflect the starlight like a still pond. Manwë shook his head slowly, brow furrowing in confusion and displeasure.

"Mother of Mothers," Estë whispered, reaching out a hand as if to stroke the hologram's face. "He was right! Just like the fairies of old!"

"The ears, the eyes," Irmo muttered, enraptured. "Just as the old stories said…"

"Doctor," Manwë butted in, "can you explain... _any_ of this?"

Irmo turned slowly to face Manwë. "No," he replied, grinning madly and beginning to giggle. "No, I can't!"

"Oromë, old son," Tulkas said aloud, "what the hell have you found?"

"Life," Oromë replied, bringing everyone's attention back to him for a moment. "Intelligent life! They hunted, they spoke, they worked, they even prayed! I don't know how it's happened, but these...these  _creatures_ are part of this world now."

Yavanna shattered the pregnant silence with a burst of laughter, joyous and unrestrained. "He's right," she said as everyone turned to look at herl. "Part of this world," she repeated like a mantra. "It's a miracle." Astonished smiles began to filter through the crowd, with none of them daring to speak aloud the reason they were so happy -  _we're not alone. Not anymore_. Even Vana's fury was mellowed somewhat.

"Commander Manwë," Oromë said, "with your permission, I would like to initiate first contact between our two races."

"Absolutely not," Manwë replied to shocked gasps. "I don't want you approaching a potentially dangerous alien species-"

"Alien?" Nessa retorted amid a clamour of disagreement. "How can  _they_  be alien? If anything,  _we're_ the alien species!"

"Sir, life's hard out here in Middle-Earth," Oromë said as the Valar mouthed  _Middle Earth?_  amongst themselves in confusion. "It's cold, it's dark, it's dangerous, and however they got here, unless they're hiding a spaceship in that forest, it's our fault. The very least we can do is offer them an olive branch."

"The risks are incalculable," Manwë replied, "and for what reward? What could a hunter-gatherer society possibly teach us?"

"Compassion," Ulmo grunted. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a full five degrees as Manwë and Ulmo locked eyes. Manwë felt the room turning against him and sighed deeply.

"On your head be it, Commander," he replied coldly, still staring Ulmo down - but the Old Man of the Sea didn't flinch. "But you  _will_ report in every 24 hours, or I'll have Tulkas here drag you home, kicking and screaming if necessary. Clear?"

A deep chuckle crackled over the radio. "He can try," Oromë replied, sounding for the first time like the hero they remembered. "Over and out."

"And he was never seen again," Tulkas quipped with mock solemnity. A poisonous look from Vana and a clip around the ear from Nessa silenced him. The close of the channel brought a strange silence to the room, with each of the Valar trying to process what had just happened with the nervous energy of a child on the night before its birthday.

"Námo," Manwë began, pinching the bridge of his nose, "have you seen...anything like this?"

The seer's tired old eyes seemed even more wizened. "No," he croaked. "Nothing." Manwë nodded.

"Nienna?" Nienna shook her head vigorously.

"My senses don't extend that far. I'd have to meet one," she replied.

"Anyone?" Manwë kept going. "Does anyone else have anything to say?" The Valar shook their heads.

"Their eyes," Vana spoke up, her usually bold voice no more than a tremulous whisper. "I've seen their like in nocturnal and crepuscular mammals. The ears, too; you see them in forest-dwelling primates. Something to do with hearing across distance through trees. But...it's just a theory," she trailed off, having become very pale.

"Doctor, do you think a medical examination would help?" Manwë asked.

Irmo looked at him dumbly for a second before replying. "Oh, of course," he said. "I'm sure it would be...instructive," he muttered, his mind clearly on other things.

Manwë nodded and gazed out of the windows towards the bright golden glow in the distance. "Well, I think that wraps things up...thank goodness. Thank you all for coming, you're dismissed. Ulmo, if I could-"

But the Commander had risen and walked away before Manwë could collar him. He sat and seethed as his one-time confidant made his silent way out of the room and back to the sea. The rest of the Valar made their goodbyes and left, until only Varda and Manwë remained at the head of the table, the face of Oromë's creature floating eerily beside them like a harpy.

"What do I have to do?" Manwë muttered, teeth clenched in frustration. "What must I do to get him to-"

"He's the one who left," Varda interrupted him. "He made his decision. We were told he might not be the same, and we were unlucky. Being alone...helps him."

Manwë gripped his wife's hand and squeezed. "These creatures," he sighed, his breath ragged with emotion, "Ulmo, Melkor…" Varda's fingers retracted imperceptibly at the mention of her brother-in-law's name. "I just…"

"What?" Varda asked him, stroking his hand. Manwë turned to face his wife.

"I feel old."


	25. Part 4: Antiphon - Chapter 25

**It's been a while, hasn't it! Real life has, sadly, got in the way for close to a year. But it's lovely to be back in my weird little version of Arda. I hope you continue to enjoy it!**

**\- Philip**

* * *

 

Mist clung to oil-black water, obscuring the stars reflected on its mirror surface. Its stillness was disturbed only by the trail of bubbles making their way to the shoreline, forming ripples that coalesced into waves, before coming to an abrupt stop several yards from land. Out of the calming waters rose a head, mud-smeared and mat-haired, with eyes swivelling left and right before a lean and gangrel figure emerged from the lake to crawl silently onto the shore. 

Oromë scampered on hands and knees to the safety of the treeline, hiding himself behind a thick trunk and bringing a small rangefinder up to his eye. Only the barest glints of light, hundreds of metres in the distance, betrayed the presence of the creatures he had been tracking for weeks. He paid them their dues; these people were, without doubt, the most accomplished at evading detection he had ever known in a lifetime of surveillance. But now, he finally had them. He rolled out from behind the tree trunk and began a long, slow crawl through dirt, leaves, mud and moss towards his goal.

He had learned to think like an animal; move like them, feel like them, breathe like them. His movements along the ground were smooth and flowing, arms and legs stretching back and forth like the gait of some predatory beast. Only by becoming one with his environment, by surrendering himself to Middle-Earth, had he got the drop on his prey. 

He lay prostrate on the last ridge separating him from the congregation of creatures in the distance. Another look through his rangefinder told him they were close enough that a sprint might just catch them unawares. He weighed up his options.  _ Don’t blow it,  _ his years of experience told him.  _ Keep your composure. Approach slowly. You have them.  _ Pocketing his rangefinder, he brought his feet up to prepare to sneak swiftly down the last few remaining yards. He steadied his breathing, felt his heartbeat slow - when suddenly, he felt the cold prick of an arrow-point in the back of his neck.

“Hang on,” Manwë interrupted Oromë. “ _ They  _ snuck up on  _ you? _ ”

Oromë frowned deeply. “Yes, Sir,” he replied. Manwë couldn’t stifle his laugh; the man on the viewscreen might have been thinner and hairier than the one he’d known, but the swollen chester and wounded pride was Oromë all over.

“Well...we’re all getting old,” Manwë quipped. “Continue.”

“They frog-marched me to their camp,” Oromë resumed. “They look like they’re nomadic; tents made to be dismantled, horses everywhere - but no light. None at all, no torches, the only fire seemed to be used solely for cooking. It’s permanently dark out here, but they seem to be able to see perfectly clearly.” Oromë lapsed into silent contemplation for a second before getting back on track. “The whole place turned out when they called - I’d say there had to be a hundred at least. They have a language, but, of course, I didn't understand a word of it. Lots of shouting and pointing. I took the hint and got on my knees, hands behind my head. That’s when I met what I’m guessing was their chief.”

Manwë shifted in his chair. “Go on,” he muttered.

“He wore the same clothes of fur and leather as they all did, but it was the respect he was shown; they parted like waves against the keel of a ship when he walked among them; He addressed me; naturally, I had no idea how to respond. He grew angry and one of my captors grabbed my hair and-and put a knife to my throat, he was...shouting, threatening me. I…” Oromë swallowed hard. “I begged for my life, though I knew they wouldn’t understand me. I guess it was the look on my face, but the chief ordered his man off me.”

“Gods,” Manwë cursed.

“I got up, eventually. I used gestures to signal friendship - pointing, clasping hands, that kind of thing. After a while he got the gist of it and accepted my handshake. We spent the next couple of hours trying to establish a dialogue. I managed to tell them I was from ‘where the winds rise’ - the West, across ‘the great lake’. That’s...about as far as I got,” Oromë finished, bashfully. 

“What did you learn about them?” Manwë asked.

“They call themselves the Eldar - the same word means ‘star’, I gathered that much. The ‘star-people’ - makes sense, I suppose; it’s the only light they’ve ever known.”

“Star-people,” Manwë repeated under his breath. “What about their history? Do they even have one?”

“Things...got a bit hazy there,” Oromë admitted. “They have no real concept of time, it seems - then again, would you, if all you’d ever known was night? The chief kept repeating a phrase which...I’m sure makes sense to them.  _ ‘None before me’ _ .”

Manwë frowned. “Could that mean he’s the eldest of the tribe?”

“Could be,” Oromë replied, “but that’s the other really strange thing. Like I said, there must have been easily a hundred tribespeople - but no-one looked older than thirty. Many of them look barely out of their teens - assuming they age like us, that is.” 

“Maybe their elders are dead,” Manwë shrugged. “You said yourself, it’s a harsh environment.” Oromë shook his head slowly.

“I don’t think so,” he replied darkly. “Every last member of that tribe looked in perfect health; no disease, no infirmity, each and every one a veritable specimen.”

Manwë drew closer to the viewscreen, his face filling the camera. “What are you saying, Oromë?” He asked conspiratorially. Oromë glanced aside and grew closer himself.

“I think,” he replied, pausing for gravitas, “ _ they’re cannibals. _ ”

They satred at each other in motionless silence until finally Manwë responded. “Cannibals.”

“Think about it!” Oromë replied effusively, suddenly bursting into life. “No elders? All the young’uns in perfect health? A hunter-gatherer society where not even  _ one  _ member looks a bit peaky? It makes perfect sense! The moment one of them can’t hunt, or fish, or work? Into the pot! The sick, the lame - lunch!”

Manwë coughed tersely. Oromë’s wild stare reminded him less of his erstwhile adjutant, and more of the old man who would scream at pigeons in the town square when he was a boy. “Possibly,” he drawled, “but let’s not ask them  _ just  _ yet...it might not translate well.”

“Yes, Sir,” Oromë replied, snapping back into military discipline with ease.

“Good, good,” Manwë mumbled, clearing his throat. “Good work, Commander. Check in again in twelve hours.”

“Will do,” Oromë replied. “Over and out.”

Manwë stretched out fully in his chair as the viewscreen went blank.  _ When he gets back _ , he thought to himself,  _ he’s never leaving Nienna’s sight. _

* * *

Oromë spent the hours until he was next due to meet with the Eldar coming up with some universal gestures he could be sure they’d understand, as well as memorising a few words in their language he felt it was imperative for him to know. “Dinner” was top of the list.

Arming himself with only a small knife concealed in his boot, he made the long walk through the dark to the Eldar camp. After hours of hiking through miles of dense forest, the pinprick light of the cooking-fire finally broke through the endless black and blue. As he drew closer, he could sense the presence of yet more bowmen stalking between the trees, silently watching his approach, eyes in the darkness. He was being shepherded, he realised; chaperoned by his still-distrustful new friends. Sure enough, five Eldar stepped into the clearing alongside him as he finally broke from the treeline. 

Just as before, the tribespeople gathered to see him, but this time their chieftain was at their head. Oromë walked to within ten paces of him, ever mindful of the itchy bowfingers that flanked him, and knelt, bowing his head and clasping his hands in supplication. A gesture, he thought, that surely showed respect in any culture. 

“Hello,” the chieftain greeted him. 

“He-” Oromë began before he fully registered what had happened. The world suddenly felt altogether too close, and Oromë very nearly toppled backwards. “You-” he spluttered, processing. “You speak my language.”

“We...learn”, the chieftain replied slowly, like an elderly man trying to cling onto his words.

“How?” Oromë gasped.

The chieftain smiled. “Eldar,” he explained, gesturing to his people. Oromë smiled slowly, understanding. 

“You are a very special people,” Oromë muttered. The chieftain bade him rise and he was led into a tent decorated with wood and bone furniture; nothing that could not be carried, broken down or left behind. The chieftain sat on a short bench beneath a cupola in the tent’s roof which allowed starlight to stream in and illuminate him, tinting him silver, like a marble statue by moonlight. He gestured to a bench opposite, and Oromë sat.

“We,” the chieftain began, feeling the words out with his lips, “want...more.”

“More? You want more?” Oromë asked. “More of what?”

“More...you,” the chieftain continue, jabbing a finger at Oromë. 

“More of...me?” Oromë repeated, pointing to himself. The chieftain winced in frustration. Oromë knew the look well; it was the frown of a man used to being master of his domain, reduced to helplessness. The chieftain raised his hands to his lips and spread them as though he were blowing a kiss.

“More!” He said, in time with his gesture.

“You want me to talk more! You want to know more about me! My people!” Oromë said frantically.

“Peo-ple! Yes!” 

“My people,” Oromë repeated enthusiastically to nods from the chieftain and his staff, who leaned in closer like children eager for a story. He cleared his throat. “My people are Ainur,” he explained. “Eldar,” he said, spreading his hands out towards the chieftain. He pulled his hands back to pat his chest. “Ainur.”

“Ainur,” the Eldar repeated slowly, repeating it until their whispers filled the tent. The chieftain nodded in satisfaction.

“And...you?” He asked.

“Yes, I am Ainur,” Oromë replied. The chieftain waved his hand dismissively.

“You. You!” He pressed him, leaning forward to prod Oromë’s chest.

“Oh, me!” Oromë blurted. “Oromë. I am Oromë. That is my name.”

“Oromë,” the Eldar repeated again. The constant murmuring of his name put Oromë slightly on edge. 

“Ingwe”, the chieftain said softly, gesturing to himself. Oromë pointed to his counterpart, who nodded sagely.

“ _ Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo _ ,” he said. The look of confusion on Oromë’s face drew soft chuckles from the chieftain and his staff.

“Stars,” the chieftain explained, pointing up through the cupola. “Light,” he continued, spreading his hands into the starlight between the pair of them. “Stars light Ingwe...stars light Oromë.” Oromë smiled. Though cryptic, he understood exactly what it meant.

“It’s very nice to meet you, too.”

* * *

The atmosphere in Manwë’s private dining room was electric, with most of the Valar squeezed around the round table, helping themselves to an extraordinary spread of delicacies from the four corners of Arda. The discovery of Oromë’s strange species had lit a fire under their society, galvanising them for the first time in millennia. The news had stayed classified for all of a day before the excitable officers had confided in enough of their most trusted crewmen to ensure that everyone knew within a week, and the realisation that they were no longer alone had had the same effect on the general populace as it had on the Valar - unbridled enthusiasm. Valinor, for the first time since its founding, was alive and active.

“I mean, here we have a neolithic people,” Vana expounded between sips of wine, “who’ve, as one, learned the rudiments of an entirely alien language in a matter of days! That’s not just a testament to their intellect, but to the way their entire society is structured!”

“That continent was never designed to support independent sentient life,” Yavanna chimed in, loading her plate with fresh leaves. “Seeing how they interact with it will tell us more than we could have ever dreamed about how Ain civilisation developed.”

“Puts me out a bit, I must admit,” Tulkas said to Aulë through a mouthful of roast chicken. “Knowing there’s a stone age civilisation that’s cleverer than me.”

“There’s urinary tract infections cleverer than you,” Nessa retorted, fishing a crumb of cheese from her cleavage and unceremoniously polishing it off as Aulë sprayed his plate with half-chewed lobster meat in a mighty guffaw.

The five old friends chewed the fat and poured the wine while Varda, Nienna and Manwë sat in surly silence. “I still think there’s more going on,” Manwë muttered to his wife. “Something Oromë isn’t telling us.”

Varda cast a careful eye over Vana - all smiles and filling out a bit again, no doubt helped along by her fourth plateful - and chose her words carefully. “Have you considered the possibility that Oromë is-”

“Mad?” Manwë interrupted. “Every day. Trust me.”

“Lying,” Varda finished, casting her eyes downwards, as though ashamed.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Manwë replied, poking at the meagre amount of food on his plate. Oromë had been unable to provide the medical, or even photographic evidence, the rest of the Valar had been so keen to receive; they thought his camera was a weapon, he claimed, and forced him to surrender it before entering their camp. His friends were more than willing to take his word at face value, but Manwë, Varda and - especially - Nienna had serious concerns. “But at his heart, Oromë is a man of honour. To ask him to lie would be like asking him to grow wings and fly - he simply couldn’t.” 

“Nienna,” Varda asked, “how do you think Oromë’s mental state is bearing up?”

Nienna fixed Varda with tired eyes. She hadn’t touched her food either. “It’s obvious he’s a lot more optimistic,” she replied, “and it seems we’re getting a bit of the old Oromë back. But in all honesty, I think it’s just papering over the cracks. He won’t begin to fully recover from this trauma until he’s back at home, away from Middle-from that place,” she corrected herself. Use of Oromë’s appellation for the Eastern continent, taken from ancient Ain myth, had become widespread despite the trio’s personal distaste for the term. 

“I don’t think that will be a problem much longer, at least,” Manwë said. “He’s told me he’s making preparations to return home very soon, as soon as he’s got something concrete to bring us. Making him stay, however…” Manwë shrugged and the other two nodded tiredly. He pushed his plate away. “I’ve no appetite,” he announced, getting to his feet. His fellow officers rose instinctively and he waved them down, annoyed. “Don’t mind me,” he sighed. “I’m going for a walk. Enjoy your food.”

“Going where?” Varda asked, regarding her husband from the corner of her eye as he crossed to the doorway. He paused a fraction too long before turning to face her. 

“Just...about,” he replied with an unconvincing smile. Varda watched it falter before he scurried away. They both knew exactly where he was going.

* * *

The winding stair, hewn from rock, was always a trial to navigate. Dark, cold, and constantly dripping to form freezing pools in the divots formed by thousands of years’ worth of footfalls, each journey Manwë made down to its foot felt like a pilgrimage. In many ways, that’s exactly what it was; a journey through the dark, a passage of penitence, into ruins and relics. He could always, he thought offhandedly, get the lift repaired - but to do that would seem like he was missing the point. In an existence hardly replete with success, this still stood out as his greatest, most monumental failure.

At the foot of the stairs, Manwë paused to catch his breath; an affectation, of course, but one so realistic that he was forced to obey it. Bizarre at it seemed, sometimes he felt like he genuinely was becoming older; he found himself out of breath more and more often, struggling to remember events from his physical life on Ain and on the Iluvatar. Maybe it was his mind’s way of coping with immortality; enforcing physical and mental frailty. If so, he reasoned, it was the very least he deserved. 

“I don’t miss them in the slightest, you know,” Námo drawled from somewhere in the cavernous room that stretched out beneath the rusting catwalk Manwë had emerged onto. “Stairs. I was a boy of twelve last time I managed to climb them under my own power.”

Manwë’s chuckle grew in volume until it filled the space with echoes. “A lifetime ago, I might have asked which century that was,” he replied. “My sense of humour has finally caught up with me.”

A harsh bark of laughter rattled off the stone walls and decaying metal structures that lined the central hall as Námo glided into plain sight. His thunderous eyes and craggy face were all that remained visible under the black robes that swaddled him, billowing gently beneath his feet, six inches off the floor. “You’ve been coming down to my halls more often lately, Manwë,” he addressed his commander, floating slowly between the columns of dead servers towards Manwë’s place on the catwalk above. “Oromë’s discovery is troubling you, isn’t it?”

Manwë sighed heavily. “I suppose I’m just used to things by now,” he replied. “Set in my ways. I had a mission, I had parameters and...they aren’t part of it,” he explained with a sad smile. 

“So you come down here,” Námo concluded, raising further and further off the floor until he saw eye-to-eye with Manwë, “to take back control. To repair the damage.”

Námo’s gaze always made Manwë uncomfortable. Superhuman as he and his people were in ability and longevity, only Námo amongst them could claim to be truly godlike; the long years in stasis had given Námo the ability, finally, to control his powerful gift of Vision to the point where he seemed practically omniscient. “Something like that,” he replied flippantly. “How long’s it been since we last tried?” Manwë asked, nodding towards the end of the room and the massive console that dominated it, monitors stretching up to the ceiling like organ pipes. 

Námo turned to regard the console nonchalantly. “Couple of months,” he replied.

“Feels like yesterday,” Manwë groaned.

“To you, perhaps,” Námo retorted. A beat of silence passed between them.

“Feel like trying again?”

The pair locked eyes. “Always, Sir,” Námo replied, gliding over to the console and wiping the accretion of moss and filth from its face. The patchwork of monitors that covered the wall flickered into life one by one as Manwë descended metal steps from the catwalk to the floor, the colours of their displays muted by a thick layer of grime.

“We’ve lost one since last I turned these on,” Námo said, pointing to a screen to his right.

“Orlan,” Manwë explained. “Went for a walk outside the city walls one night...just kept walking, I suppose.”

“Surprising,” Námo replied, “how few truly have the stamina for immortality. But at risk of sounding heartless, it makes our job a little easier.”

_ One less fractured mind to sift through,  _ Manwë thought as he cleaned off a secondary console and began inputting commands. “How much have we captured so far?”

“Less than twenty percent,” Námo grumbled as he wiped a filthy monitor clean with his bare hand. “Not exactly a great return for a hundred years’ work.” 

“Yes, well,” Manwë sighed. “Needle in a haystack doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, inside a million other haystacks, and the haystack is imaginary and the needle isn’t there.”

“Then why do you bother?” Námo asked, turning from his work to regard Manwë sympathetically. “You’ve already done more than could possibly be asked of you. Probably more than he deserves,” he finished brusquely, looking back to the console. The constant drip of water down the stone walls and laboured hum of the servers only highlighted the silence that fell between them.

“I made a promise,” Manwë said softly, at great length. 

* * *

Having polished off the entire spread, Varda’s guests had called for more wine and made their unsteady way out into the gardens with it, where their wassailing almost threatened to reach even her high window. On the floor at the foot of her bed, she sat cross-legged and barefoot opposite Nienna, couched in a pile of cushions.

“During sleepovers,” Varda said, pulling a quilt down from the bed to cover her legs, “I was always the one that wanted to get to sleep early. The other girls always wanted to try and break into the liquor cabinet.” 

Nienna smiled widely, her tired eyes wrinkling with affection. “I guess nothing ever changes that much,” she replied.

“Never,” Varda replied with the soft laugh of the exhausted. Comfortable silence settled over the old friends, tinged with unspoken sadness. “What’s Manwë thinking?” She asked. 

“He probably just needed some space away from them,” Nienna replied, nodding towards the window. 

“No, no, no,” Varda interjected. “I mean...literally. I’m asking you. What’s he  _ thinking _ ?”

Nienna’s eyebrows raised as she realised Varda’s meaning, then frowned. “He’s...burdened,” she sighed. “He feels like he’s walking a tightrope. He’s under a lot of strain right now and...he doesn’t know if he can handle it.”

Varda’s brow knotted in concern. “Manwë? Not sure he can handle it?” It sounded anathema to everything she knew about her husband. 

Nienna cast her eyes downwards, working up the wherewithal to continue. “Manwë has...always relied on the strength and decisiveness of those around him to reassure him. It’s my belief that, with Ulmo gone, when Oromë left he lost the last person he truly looked up to.” She laughed. “Even after thousands of years as the king of the world, he still has an inferiority complex. It’s quite impressive, really.”

Varda didn’t see the humour in it. “Well,” she muttered darkly, “that explains why he’s been going on his... _ walks _ .” Nienna regarded her questioningly. Varda sighed sadly. Her friend had a right to know, probably more than any of the Valar. “He’s been visiting Námo. Down in the Tank.”

Nienna shifted in her cushions, suddenly uncomfortable. “Why?” She asked, immediately regretting it.

“He tells me he’s working on a way to reverse what happened,” Varda scoffed. “Him and Námo. You can believe that if you like - I don’t.”

“Then-” Nienna gulped, “then what’s he doing there?”

“You know,” Varda told her softly. Nienna unconsciously brought her hand to her throat in horror, breathing harder. “I’m just surprised he didn’t do it sooner.”

“It’s...it’s no surprise he’d choose to do this now,” Nienna replied, desperately forcing the rational part of her brain into action. “Ulmo and Oromë were his two most trusted advisors, with them gone…”

“He never could say no to him, never could,” Varda mused, almost to herself. “Even after everything.”

“But-but it’s pointless,” Nienna blurted, “there was nothing left. Of anyone, of any-any of us. He was...lost.” 

Varda snorted. “Do you really think that would stop Manwë?” 

* * *

“Up to twenty-three percent,” Námo croaked after hours of silence. “Our best session yet.”

“Well, at least that’s the hard part over,” Manwë deadpanned, rubbing his tired eyes. 

“How much longer are you going to keep this up, Manwë?” Námo asked. Manwë felt a deep, cold pain in his gut; the Vision had a knack for asking armour-piercing questions. 

“As long as it takes,” Manwë replied gruffly, fixing Námo with an imperious stare. Námo smiled sadly and nodded.

“You said you made a promise earlier,” he replied. “Who was it to? Melkor? Or yourself?”

Manwë’s eyes narrowed and he made to react, but bit his tongue at the last second. Slamming his fist down on the ancient console, he stormed back up to the catwalk.

“Mind the stairs!” Námo’s mocking cry echoed up the stone shaft as Manwë began his long, slow ascent. 

* * *

Far out to sea, birds circled a lichen-covered stack bursting out of the water like a boil, swooping down in their hundreds into the water off its sheer cliffs to bring sprats and minnows up to their screaming chicks. The screeching of insistent young and the rush and splash of the waves went unheard deep within the rock, where the strains of now-ancient Ain music echoed along steel gangways and throughout monstrous engine rooms.

_ Here’s to you...here’s to me… _

Ulmo mumbled the words tunelessly as he inspected piece after piece of electrical equipment, sat cross-legged on the floor before an inactive turbine. Keeping his massive floating home operational without the help of those on land was his all-consuming passion; the longer he could spend at sea, away from the indolence of Valinor, the more it felt like his mind was eased. It had been centuries since he had expelled the last of his staff from his base, watching from the top of the stack as they flew back to land in a fleet of shuttles like seabirds returning to the roost. In all that time it had been nothing but perfect quiet and blissful solitude, for the most part.

_ I pray that friends...we’ll always be… _

He rubbed an oil-stained dial with a grubby cloth, mouthing along to his song. The aftermath of his brief return to Valinor had seen him dive even deeper into his devotion to the base, like a hermit retreating to the deepest, darkest recesses of his cave after a brush with civilisation. Free to roam the endless seas of Arda in his submersible fortress, Ulmo had discovered wonders and surprises beyond even the Valar’s wildest conceptions, and which would remain forever his secrets. 

_ And if by chance- _

Ulmo flinched, silencing his singing, as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the metal he was buffing. It had been a while since he’d seen himself - with just him keeping the base going, dirt and grime had accumulated in spades on every surface, dulling all metal and fogging all glass. He hardly recognised the man who stared back - empty-eyed and crag-faced, with matted white hair tumbling from his head and chin like seaweed. 

“And if by chance,” he whispered, running thin, gnarled fingers over the lines that had formed on his face, “we disag-we disag-we disag-” Lines of static cut across Ulmo’s face, his hand flickering in and out of appearance as he repeated himself like a scratched record. 

_ No, _ Ulmo thought.  _ Not again. No more. Please. _

He let out a blood-curdling scream that overpowered the music, bringing his hands to his head and falling backwards to writhe on the cold concrete floor, racked with agony. “NO!” He roared, slamming his shimmering, disappearing fist into the ground. He flitted between existence and non-existence, parts or all of his body appearing silver and translucent, like a weak video signal. The world around him fell apart, reformed and then tore itself down again, with invisible hands emerging from the ether to tear at his mind and destroy his body over and over again.

“NO MORE!” Ulmo shouted, summoning every ounce of his will and crawling to the service left opposite the turbine, slamming the emergency button and clinging on for dear life as it roared up the interminable central shaft, coming to a halt mere seconds later outside the bridge.

“Begin...bridging procedure!” Ulmo gasped as he stumbled onto the bridge, covering his eyes with his insubstantial hands to protect them from the glare of artificial sunlight peering over the horizon and in through the high, wide windows that offered a lord’s view of the ocean below - far more than his eyes, white as cave-fish, could take now. Within seconds blackout shutters had blocked out the light and the red of flashing warning lights had taken its place, accompanied by the drone of alarm sirens. Ulmo made his painful way to the bridge commander’s chair and threw himself down into it.

“Commence neural bridge,” he ordered through gritted teeth as his seat began to rise from its platform and recline until Ulmo was almost horizontal. Steel restraints clapped into place at his wrists and ankles as a metal halo, glowing on its inner edge, extended from the chair’s back to cover his head. 

**_Bridge opening in five_ ** , the computer’s mellifluous female voice chimed as Ulmo began to breathe hard, in and out, readying his body for an even greater strain.  **_Four. Three._ ** The halo began to glow bright enough to make Ulmo’s eyes water, humming and whining with energy. **_Two. One._ **

**_Neural bridge open._ **

Ulmo let out a roar of pain and primal rage as tendrils of energy latched onto his temples, sending sparks flying from consoles and power junctions around the bridge. Swiftly, the flickering and static abated, and he regained his full physical form, but the process was not yet over. Resuming his aggressive breathing, Ulmo gritted his teeth and channelled his fury and his agony completely into his machinery.

“RAGE!” He screamed, almost silencing the sirens. “BLOW!” 

Outside the stack, the seabirds ceased their circling and made for the safety of their nests; the clear blue skies  suddenly turned black, swarming with seething clouds that twisted and twirled their way around the rock. Lightning flashed and cracked across the whirlwind, striking water and sending geysers of steam shooting hundreds of feet into the air as a gale began to whip the ocean into a full-on storm. Ten-metre swells battled and thundered, opening roaring chasms in the water’s surface which refilled with monstrous force. The storm raged with the intensity of a wildfire, forever finding new fuel with which to replenish itself. On far-off Taniquetil, Manwë watched as a spot of malevolent blackness thrashed and raged against all within its grasp, and hung his head in shame.

“And if,” Ulmo growled, splittle flecking his sunken cheeks, “by chance, we disagree...to hell with you,” he spat, feeling his breathing finally slowing and shallowing as a sense of relative calm came over him.

“And here’s to me.”


	26. Part 4: Antiphon - Chapter 26

_ The red light at the mouthpiece flashed insistently. The hiss of static filled the cabin like the bated breath of an audience before a soliloquy, and Oromë’s mouth went dry. _

_ “Mayday,” he mumbled into the radio. “Mayday,” he repeated, forcing some strength into his voice, quelling the riot raging in the pit of his stomach. “This is Oromë, come in, Valinor.” _

_ The silence, although it lasted mere seconds, threatened to snap Oromë in half. He was moments from bellowing his request into the mic again before the voice of a middle-aged woman responded. _

_ “Valinor,” the respondent confirmed, “Commander, confirm mayday, over” she asked, her voice betraying confusion - and an undercurrent of dread. Oromë let out a long sigh, as though the last of his strength was leaving him. _

_ “Confirm, over,” he croaked, rubbing his face with rough, gnarled hands in exhaustion. The radio crackled back to life as he lowered them. _

_ “Do you require extraction? Medical assistance? Over,” his contact continued. Silence fell as Oromë lowered his hands. “Commander?” _

_ “Help,” Oromë whispered as blood dripped down his palms and clung, hot and wet, to his beard. “Help us.” _

* * *

**_One week earlier_ **

In the weeks and months following his formal introduction to Ingwë, Oromë had become a fast friend of the chieftain, and of his tribe. They had been happy to share their food with him and dress him in their furs once they had seen him exit Ingwë’s hut arm-in-arm their their leader, and Oromë had slowly begun to piece together what life was like for the Eldar. 

“The tribe,” he spoke into his dictaphone, “call themselves the Minyar. It means the ‘first ones’; apparently, they believe they were the first of their kind to come to life. There are two other tribes of Eldar they know of, both divided into dozens of clans of around a hundred each. They call them the Tatyar and Nelyar...no prizes for guessing what that means,” he remarked laconically, stooping to pick up a rock from the foreshore where he stood, gazing out over the black, star-speckled waters of the great lake. “They pride themselves on their craftsmanship, and I can’t say I blame them,” he said, admiring the pauldron on his right shoulder - a gift from Ingwë, crafted from the pelt of the first deer he had killed for the tribe. “They devote themselves to craft, almost single-mindedly, from the moment they rise to the moment they rest.”

“They call this place Cuiviénen,” he continued, turning the rock over his his hand. “It means ‘awakening’; it’s believed that this is where their kind first came to life. It’s as good a guess as any,” Oromë shrugged, flinging the stone out into the water and watching it break the surface with a satisfying plop. 

“My studies of their language are going well,” he went on. “They call it Quenya - another name for their own kind is ‘Quendi’, ‘the talkers’, which is a bloody laugh if I ever heard one. They’ll answer questions easily enough, but you have to...word it very specifically. They won’t proffer information you don’t ask them for. Shrewd people,” he added admiringly. “My one disappointment has been their reluctance to let me take any kind of medical readings from them - no blood samples, no scans, not even so much as an eye test. It might just help explain...all of this,” he sighed.

“Oromë!” An Eldar youth - distinguishable only from his elders only in the band of leather he wore around his head - called after the Ainu. He pointed nervously towards the camp a half-mile behind them, reticent to address their strange visitor directly. “Ingwë…” he blurted before trailing off. Oromë smiled good-naturedly.

“I’m coming,” he replied in Quenya, trudging up the shore to where the callow youth stood. The youngster averted his eyes as Oromë drew next to him. “Do I frighten you?” He asked, concerned.

The young Elda blushed furiously, meeting Oromë’s gaze out of shame at the older man’s hurt. “No, Sir,” he replied. “It’s just...strange,” he muttered, fiddling with the queue of platinum-blonde hair at the back of his head. Oromë chuckled.

“For me, too,” he reassured him, laying a rough hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Imrin,” the boy replied, his eyes flickering downwards in momentary shyness before relaxing. 

“Well, Imrin,” Oromë said as they began to walk back to the camp together, “I promise you, I was more surprised than you when I first met your tribe. Your existence here...it simply couldn’t be. I couldn’t accept it.”

“It is so,” Imrin rebutted. “This has been our home and our way since we first awoke; we have ever heard the waves of the lake and hunted in the forest.”

“Who’s your father, Imrin?” Oromë asked. “Your mother?”

“My father is Indi,” Imrin replied. “My mother is Idris.” Oromë nodded. They weren’t Eldar he knew. He was still having trouble, between the similar names and remarkable likenesses, telling one Elda from another.

“Are they still alive?” Oromë asked. Imrin stopped dead, his glassy black eyes locked in fear with Oromë’s. “That’s not a threat!” Oromë laughed, holding his hands up. “I merely ask the question.”

“Of course they are,” Imrin hissed, resuming his pace, albeit now at a remove from Oromë. Oromë nodded reassuringly.

“I simply want to learn of your families - all of your tribes’,” he clarified. “Where you come from.”

“We come from here,” Imrin replied. Oromë gave a thin smile of frustration.

“I mean your past, Imrin,” he explained. “The Eldar who lived before you.”

“None lived before us,” Imrin replied peevishly. A note of annoyance had crept into his voice. Oromë sighed silently. 

“So I keep hearing,” he said, feeling his own patience with the boy wearing thin. “But you must have had…” His Quenya failed him. “Your father’s father,” he said. “What was his name?”

“He has none,” Imrin stated baldly. Oromë felt frustration rise further in him before he remembered that certain cultures on Ain had a tradition of unpersoning the dead; the Eldar, he assumed, were the same. 

“I see,” Oromë replied diplomatically. The two walked the rest of the way to the camp in silence, save for a courteous farewell. Eldar inclined their heads respectfully as Oromë passed them on his way to Ingwë’s test. The guards outside parted the flap of leather which served for a door and Oromë found Ingwë standing, shoulders tense and hands clasped tightly together, and staring out of the window towards the forest.

“Ingwë,” Oromë greeted his friend with a bow. “Is something wrong?”

“Messengers from clan Findis of the Tatyar, “ Ingwë began, “came today, on horseback. They told us that six of their youths had gone hunting in the forest a day’s walk from here, eight days ago. As of today, they have not returned. The messengers had hoped they might be with us.”

Oromë frowned. “That’s bad news,” he replied. “Perhaps they met with an accident?” Ingwë brushed his hand through the air; the Eldar equivalent, Oromë had learned, of shaking the head.

“They sent others to search for them,” he explained, “after the third day. All they found was a single arrow, loosed into a tree. But you,” he said, rounding on Oromë, “are a mighty hunter. Could you help?”

Oromë nodded. Even without the biological data he’d been pressing the Eldar so hard for, his shuttle was still up to the task. “Happy to help, my friend.”

Ingwë smiled widely. “Thank you. The Tatyar are watering their horses for the trip home; we can tell them together.”

The Tatyar messengers and their horses reacted with shock at their first sight of Oromë, wild-haired and heavily-bearded as he was, but were quick to give their thanks upon learning of his offer to help. As they sped off into the eternal night, Oromë took his leave of Ingwë and began the long walk back to his shuttle.

He had only been away a few weeks, but Middle Earth had seemed intent on reclaiming his vehicle. Hacking at the vines which choked the hatch with his knife, Oromë succeed in jarring it open enough to slip inside and tore free of the last remaining strands upon takeoff.

As the world below him shrank, Oromë considered the strange double-life he had been living for so long; slumming it with the Minyar, hunting with them and sharing their spoils, learning the beauty of their carving and weaving, hearing them recite poetry by starlight - and now here he was, effortlessly operating technology millions of years ahead of them, seeing their home from a perspective none of them could ever dream of, as though he were a god. For a second the stick felt alien to him, a relic of a past life. All he wanted was to stalk the forests of Arda, knife in hand, forever. 

A sharp list to his left brought Oromë’s attention back to the real world, and he quickly righted the shuttle. “Computer,” he called out, getting to the task at hand at last, “scan for lifesigns.”

_ Please note _ , the computer replied lyrically,  _ range is reduced to one kilometre due to sensor malfunction _ . Oromë swore; after a century of his own jury-rigged repairs, his faithful steed was starting to fall apart. Banking hard and descending, Oromë began his search of the mighty forest. Laying a simple grid pattern into the autopilot, he abandoned the pilot’s seat and took up the position at navigation, waiting for signs of life.

For hours, Oromë pored over the bright red dots that grew and shrank on the navigation display, scrutinising them for anything that would betray them as Eldar; sudden bursts of speed, movement in formation, but he found nothing. As he reached the end of his search pattern, he ripped off his pilot’s headset and threw it across the cabin in frustration. Ingwë’s resistance to allowing Oromë to conduct even a cursory medical examination of any of his people had irritated him before this, but now it felt like the chieftain’s stubbornness had prevented him from finding six lost children. It was a conversation, Oromë resolved, he would resume upon his return.

* * *

_ Connecting… _ , Varda’s computer screen flashed slowly. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose; this was the eighth time she had tried to get through, and her respondent was now an hour late for their check-in. It wasn’t irritation, though, that motivated her - it was concern. 

It was to her great surprise when Ulmo suddenly appeared, draped in a shawl, on the other end of the line. “Ulmo!” She greeted him, organising her materials and trying to look like she was on top of things. “Thank you for replying - eventually…”

Ulmo gave a murmur of assent and nodded slowly, a single grey dreadlock falling across his face. “Sometimes, it takes me...time,” he said with the lilting cadence of a man on the verge of sleep. Varda nodded sympathetically.

“I understand,” she said softly. It tore her apart to see her lifelong friend in such discomfort. “It’s just that this is the longest it’s ever taken for you to recover from an episode.” Hurricane Ulmo - as some of the crueller Maiar had named it - was still a topic of conversation in Valinor months later, and even threatened to overtake the Eldar as the Ainur’s favourite subject at points. The western sea had been whipped up into a fury none of them had ever thought possible, and most of it had been thrown at Valinor’s doorstep, forming indescribable patinas and curlicues of electrical discharge along the forcefield that protected the edge of the city. Some had said that it had beaten out the Trees for beauty that night; some others had said, much more quietly, that it felt as though Valinor were not simply in the way of the hurricane, but its target. The faraway, almost guilty, look in Manwë’s eyes in the days following the storm had not gone unnoticed. 

Ulmo sighed and stared off-camera. “I never recover,” he retorted. “It gets worse every time. And I never find myself at the level where I was before, like I’ve...slipped down a rung. Like each one takes something away from me, forever.” 

Varda tightened her lips to maintain her composure. “Well,” she replied, forcing some optimism into her voice, “I think you’ll be happy with the news I’ve got for you. Those extra carrier waves Nessa implemented into the projection matrix took perfectly, so we’ve managed to free up two whole satellites. If we arrange those in concert with the satellite we’ve already dedicated to your avatar, I think the triangulation of the pattern should give you significantly enhanced stability.”

Ulmo’s dark eyes bore deep into the camera. “How enhanced?” He asked.

“Well, it will certainly stop the episodes from getting any worse or more frequent,” Varda explained. “I’m estimating a 400% increase in signal strength and a 75% drop in degradation, but,” she stressed as Ulmo’s tired eyes widened slightly, “these  _ are  _ only estimates. It’s going to be slow going until we work out exactly how much of you we can…” She trailed off.

“How much of me you can get back,” Ulmo finished for her with the grim resignation of a dying man. 

“Y-yes,” Varda confirmed, her voice betraying her to a whisper. “But we should see, at the very least, an immediate improvement in your-in your condition,” she continued as Ulmo weathered the news as though it were an unfunny joke he’d already heard.

“When can you get it done?” Ulmo asked, impatiently. Varda smiled.

“The satellites are already in position,” she replied. “I just need your consent.”

Ulmo spread his hands wide. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, settling himself into his chair. 

Varda’s fingers skittered frantically over her keyboard as she linked the three in concern, amplifying the signal they carried to multiple times its original strength. “Stand by,” she muttered as the levels slowly increased until they reached critical mass. “Okay, Ulmo, I want you to brace yourself,” she said, heart in her mouth. “This might not be pleasant.”

“Chance’d be a fine thing,” Ulmo growled, biting into one of his dreadlocks and gripping the arms of his seat. “Ready,” he mumbled through a mouthful of hair.

“Initialising in three,” Varda counted down, “two, one.” No sooner had Varda pressed the button to activate all three satellites together than Ulmo had arched back in his seat, screaming against his makeshift gag, his slender, strong fingers threatening to rip the arms straight off his seat. “Ulmo!” Varda called out. “Ulmo, do you need me to stop? Is something wrong? Ulmo!”

“No!” Ulmo shouted, spitting the hair from his mouth as he twisted in his seat like a fighter pilot doing barrel rolls. An aura of static flashed and flickered over his body, and great explosions of light sent him tossing this way and that like a boxer being helplessly pummelled. “I…can...do this!” He grunted, bending almost double and tensing his muscles. Varda’s breaths ran ragged and shallow, and her hand hovered over the key that would abort the process. One final flash of light sent Ulmo sprawling in his seat, his spasms finally eased. 

“Ulmo?” Varda asked quietly. “Ulmo, honey, talk to me.”

“Oh,” Ulmo groaned, “Gods of the SUN!” Varda laughed in sheer relief.

“You’re alive,” she babbled, wiping away an errant tear.

“Wish I fucking wasn’t,” Ulmo replied, pushing himself up in his seat painfully. 

“How does it feel? Better or worse?”

“Give me a moment,” he sighed, catching his breath and rubbing his eyes. After some minutes of silence Ulmo took a deep breath and threw his head back, his metre-long dreadlocks arcing through the air like flying fish. Varda was entranced to see how he seemed to be looking at everything around his station like it was the first time he’d ever seen it. 

“Better,” he said, at length. “Much...much better.” He smiled for what seemed the first time in years. Varda laughed in joy as she ran diagnostics on the satellites.

“Everything’s within expected parameters,” she said, “I’m reading a 402% increase in signal and only 12% degradation - this is fantastic!” 

“Well, let’s hope it lasts,” Ulmo replied, staring at his hands in wonderment like a man with new spectacles. Varda smiled and got back to fine-tuning the satellite outputs, leaving several minutes of silence to stretch out comfortably between the two. “How is...everyone?” Ulmo said at length, almost sheepishly. Varda paused, unsure how to respond.

“They’re...fine,” she replied, nonplussed. Ulmo cleared his throat.

“It’s just,” he said, “I realise I’ve slightly neglected my friendships for the last couple of...centuries,” he muttered. Varda let out a burst of laughter. Ulmo’s dry wit returning was the best sign she could have had that he had recovered much of his former self.

“Well, things here on the mainland have really picked up lately,” she said, “what with Oromë’s discovery.”

“Something new to talk about at last?” Ulmo replied pithily. 

“Pretty much,” Varda said. “But, it’s more than that; it’s really made everyone come together again, for the first time since...since the accident,” she said as gently as she could, not wanting to cause Ulmo any undue pain. Her friend, however, took it philosophically. 

“Nothing like having a child to save a failing marriage,” he muttered sardonically. Varda smiled thinly at his dark humour. 

“Everyone’s working again, not just leaving it to the computers,” she said. “We were only able to try this because Nessa worked out the carrier wave solution - it had been staring us in the face for centuries, but only now did we even see it.”

“Well, good for Oromë, then,” Ulmo replied. “How’s,” he began, pausing at the last moment. “How’s Manwë?” 

Varda swallowed. She knew he was only asking to be polite. “He’s...got a lot on his mind at the moment,” she said, evasively. “He’s taking the news about Oromë’s tribe very seriously, he doesn’t seem to be quite as...excited as the rest of us.” Ulmo nodded slowly and edged closer to the camera.

“You know, the thing about having a child to save a failing marriage is, it doesn’t work,” he said. “Maybe, he just knows it.”

* * *

Ingwë’s reaction to Oromë’s failure had been, in the Ainu’s opinion, excessive. It was beyond his ability to understand, the chieftain kept repeating, how such a great and powerful hunter could have failed to spot six young Eldar. The entire rant had the unmistakable ring of  _ I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.  _  His unsuccessful return had only been compounded by the presence of messengers from not only clan Findis, but of a clan of the Nelyar, who had also lost members of their tribe, and come to the Minyar on the Tatyar’s recommendation. The messengers stood in the shadows of Ingwë’s tent, glancing down uncomfortably as the two friends argued ferociously.

“I tried to tell you earlier,” Oromë argued, keeping his voice low only with great effort, “that had you consented to my examinations, I might have been able to find them. I didn’t know what I was looking for.” 

“You are a hunter!” Ingwë retorted. “You have eyes, ears, nostrils! What else does a hunter require?”

Oromë sighed deeply and rubbed his tired eyes. “I have...tools,” he said, slowly, bending his Quenya into shape, “made by my people, which can find prey without using eyes or ears. I used those tools, because to search the forest with only my senses would have taken too long. I...I’m just not as quick as you,” he chuckled, somewhat abashed. “But my tools need information. Information...from you,” he finished, unsatisfied with his butchery of their tongue. There was so much, he realised, they simply couldn’t comprehend. 

“What tools?” Ingwë asked, eyes narrow, like an investigator peeling back the layers of an alibi.

“Please,” Oromë said softly, “it’s difficult for me to explain. You don’t have words for them. You don’t even have words for what they’re used for,” he blustered. Ingwë’s eyes narrowed even further, his lip drawing up into a snarl.

“I see,” he hissed, closing the gap between them, wounded pride inflating his bravery. “The Ainur are so very mighty, and the Eldar so puny, so like children!”

“That...that’s not what I meant,” Oromë sighed, shamefaced, but he knew it was exactly what he had meant. “I have insulted you,” he said, bowing his head. “I apologise.” Ingwë drew in a deep breath, letting it go slowly. He nodded quickly and laid his hand upon Oromë’s shoulder. “I will show you these...tools,” Oromë said, “if that is what you wish.”

Ingwë nodded slowly. “I do wish that,” he replied quietly. 

“Tell the messengers to remain,” Oromë advised his friend. “I’ll return in an hour with all the answers you want.”

As Oromë trudged back towards his shuttle, a part of him worried he was making a mistake. Everything he had done thus far was with the aim of limiting the Eldar’s exposure to Ainur technology, preserving their - as Oromë reasoned it - innocence. He was an observer, and nothing more; and yet, here he was, about to open their eyes to worlds they never thought possible. 

* * *

Ingwë and the messengers sat in awkward silence in his tent. The mallornwood stick, used ubiquitously among the Eldar to measure time, had smouldered down to the next notch. Ingwë seethed quietly. Could it be that his strange friend had fled, ashamed of his failure?

A strange noise caught his attention. Ingwë’s eyes were drawn to the firestick, suddenly shuddering in its pot, clicking and clacking like a child’s rattle. The chieftain and messengers took to their feet as they felt the earth beneath them begin to hum, growing deeper and more profound until the pot shattered. 

“Earthquake!” Ingwë cried out, fleeing from his tent, followed by his guests. “Everybody outside!” He commanded his tribe, but they had already taken the initiative and flown, pouring out of the small village of tents into open ground. Ingwë sprinted to the head of the group, counting heads, when blinding lights above them forced the Eldar to their knees, screaming in terror, shielding their sensitive eyes. Through their hands, they could make out a huge and terrible shape, wings spread like an eagle but more vast than any they had ever seen, bearing down on them. 

“Arrows!” Ingwë ordered. “Take it down!” Bolts were loosed from across the group, but with their archers blinded, hardly any hit their mark. A mighty wind blew across the faces of the group, who began to stagger back to their tents in panic, even as the rumbling of the earth grew louder and more intense. 

Ingwë stood his ground. “Knives!” He shouted, drawing his own weapon - a long, straight blade of volcanic glass - and preparing to take down their foe head-on. The shape took to ground with a thump that sent the chieftain to his backside, and the lights and noises stopped as suddenly as they had begun. The panic of the Eldar gradually subsided as the spots cleared from their eyes, replaced by wonder and a mild sense of trepidation; the source of their fears sat squat and immobile before them, a long, grey mass with slender arms jutting outwards near the back, balanced on three flat feet. Slowly, Ingwë approached the strange creature, knuckles white around his knife, crouching into a defensive stance as a gaping hole appeared in its side with a hiss. Ingwë’s legs almost failed him as he saw his friend Oromë hop out of the hole and down to the ground, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 

“Oromë,” he whispered, his heart racing so hard he feared he would faint, “what is the meaning of this?”

“You wanted to see my tools,” Oromë replied, smiling. “Here they are.”

Ingwë spent the majority of Oromë’s brief tour of his shuttle looking like he’d had a religious experience; his friend had been correct when he’d said the Eldar didn’t even have words in their language to describe the wonders his people had accomplished. 

“What I said before, in anger,” Ingwë muttered as he sat in the co-pilot’s seat and looked out over his tiny, ramshackle camp, “I say again, in truth; the Ainur are mighty, and the Eldar truly are like children.”

“Ingwë,” Oromë replied gently, “these are only tools. Creations. They serve the same purpose as a knife, or a fish-hook. They require skill to craft, yes, but it is the same skill that allows an Elda to make a bow, or a hut, or a boat. My people have existed for longer - far, far longer - than yours, and I am sure you would make tools such as these had you existed for as long as we have.”

“This...flying house,” Ingwë babbled, gesturing around him. “Can it take us to your people?” 

Oromë’s heart leapt in excitement. “Yes,” he replied, “yes, it absolutely can. Is that something you would like?”

Ingwë stared in wonderment at the array of displays and consoles around the co-pilot’s seat. “To walk with gods...such a thing is the dream of a lifetime.”

The pair exited the shuttle to find the rest of the Minyar crowded around it and adoring it as though it were a holy icon. Muddy handprints and crude depictions of animals, specifically eagles, adorned its fuselage, like the ancient paintings that had been found in caves back on Ain. “I’ll have to get permission from my...my chieftain,” Oromë said. “It may take some time.” 

“Of course,” Ingwë replied, smiling affectionately as the tribe’s children ran under and around the shuttle. “What should I tell the messengers?”

Oromë shrugged. “Tell them all I told you,” he told him. “My people’s friendship is with all Eldar, not just the Minyar.” Ingwë bowed his head graciously and gestured the messengers to join him in his tent as Oromë re-entered the shuttle - shooing away a pair of over-curious kids - to send a broadcast to Valinor.

A flashing red light on the navigation console diverted his attention away from the radio. “Computer, what’s the problem?” He asked.

_ Buildup of isoquantum radiation detected,  _ the computer replied calmly. Oromë blinked in surprise.

“Source?” He asked, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat to review the navigation screens.

_ Multiple sources _ .

“Display on screen,” Oromë ordered. His brow furrowed in confusion as his navigation screen showed an irregular patchwork of red that covered the surrounding area, shifting and changing like a lava lamp, but mostly confined to the limits of the Minyar camp. A huge swath of red, however, covered most of the great lake, just a few hundred yards to the west.

“Computer,” Oromë mused, running his finger over the red patch on the water, “isolate and enhance this section.”

_ Maximum enhancement not possible due to sensor malfunction. _

“Just give me what you can,” Oromë replied impatiently. The map zoomed out to show the lake in all its huge, hundred-kilometre-long glory, marred by an angry, ragged red spot near its centre like a bee sting. Oromë stared at the image, lost in thought. “Computer, define isoquantum radiation.”

_ Isoquantum radiation is a non-naturally occurring form of high-intensity radiation formed as a byproduct of certain means of energy production, such as- _

“Computer,” Oromë interrupted, the germ of a mad idea taking root and flourishing. “Could you create a representation of all sources of isoquantum radiation, on the scale of one centimetre?”

A slight pause from the computer made Oromë’s heart skip a beat.  _ Manual scan required due to sensor malfunction _ , it responded at length. Oromë nodded.

“Computer,” he asked thoughtfully, gazing outwards to the lake. “Are we waterproof?”

* * *

Tulkas yawned loudly, shaking his head violently to force himself awake. Around the long table in Surveillance, the other Valar made similar attempts to rouse themselves; being forced into a top-level meeting at two in the morning was something they had all hoped they’d left behind. The smell of fresh coffee suffused the room as the irritated officers swigged it by the flaskful, trying to stave off the fog that surrounded them all. “Gods above, he’d better have a bloody good reason for this,” he growled, bleary-eyed. Immortal beings composed of light as they were, it seemed even they needed their eight hours.

“He wouldn’t have called us all if it wasn’t,” Vana replied, practically on the edge of her seat by contrast. It was perhaps predictable, but she seemed the only of the Valar who had their wits about them at all. 

“Quite,” Manwë added, wearing his exhaustion like a grudge. “Varda...do the honours,” he grunted, sitting upright in his seat and straightening his tunic. Oromë’s face appeared on their viewscreens, as red-eyed as themselves but galvanised with nervous energy. 

“So, Commander, are you going to explain why you’ve dragged all your friends out of bed at this unwelcome hour?” Manwë asked sardonically. Oromë smiled.

“Apologies, Commander,” he replied, “but I thought you should know - I’m coming home.” 

A outburst of relief and surprise rose from the Valar. Tulkas clapped his mighty hands together, and Vana let out a sob of joy. “Well, that’s great, Oromë,” Manwë replied, “really great. I’m glad. But couldn’t this have waited until morning?” Oromë’s smile faded slowly, like a child forced to reveal a lie.

“No,” he replied softly. “No, Sir, it couldn’t.” Manwë’s faced hardened. His former adjutant’s tone worried him. “I’m bringing some of the Eldar with me. I want Irmo and Estë to look them over.”

All eyes in the room widened and turned to Manwë, staring with grim fascination at their commander’s inevitable reaction. Manwë’s chest swelled as though he might rip his tunic in half, before collapsing into quiet, exhausted laughter. His high-pitched chuckle echoed disturbingly throughout the meeting room, putting everyone on edge. “No, you’re not,” he replied at last. “You’re just not.”

“You’re going to have to explain that order, Commander,” Oromë said, darkly.

“No, I don’t,” Manwë replied with a dismissive smirk. “Not now, and not ever. It’s a good thing that you’re coming home, seeing as you seem to have forgotten how the chain of command works.” 

Oromë’s tired, craggy eyes blazed with quiet fury. In the furrowing of his brow, Manwë recognised the old soldier that had whipped the fear into Melkor’s rebels single-handed. “I think you ought to know, Commander,” he continued, more quietly, “that I haven’t made this decision lightly.”

“ _ Lord  _ Commander,” Manwë corrected him, ignoring the frowns of the Valar and a poisonous look from his wife. “Forgive me if I’m having some trouble believing that, Oromë; what’s that on your shoulder?” Oromë’s eyes swivelled down to his deer-pelt pauldron. “Were you any other man, I’d say you’ve gone native.”

“I have reason to believe,  _ Sir _ ,” Oromë spat, “that we are directly responsible for the existence of the Eldar.”

Manwë’s lip twitched. “That’s quite a statement,” he said. “Continue.”

Oromë recounted the story of his futile search for the Tatyar youths, the Eldar’s awe, and his discovery. The scientists among them shook their heads more and more forcefully as he went on.

“Oromë, it’s just not possible,” Aulë interrupted him at last, having taken all he could bear. “You simply couldn’t have been picking up isoquantum radiation, not in those quantities, and certainly not in that part of the world. If you’ve been anywhere near the Trees, maybe, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Oromë,” Yavanna added, sympathetically, “but Aulë is right. How old is that shuttle now? How long has it gone without a proper service? The sensors have to be wrong.” Oromë lapsed into silence, bowing his head.

“Wrong,” he whispered. “The sensors have to be wrong. I see. Then explain this,” he shot back, punching at his console emphatically. The map of radiation sources dominated the Valar’s screens, a lattice of red dots with an outline of the great lake superimposed on top. “What does that look like to you?” 

The Valar fell silent as they absorbed the information on the scan. The red dots clustered in a perfectly straight line, a few tens of metres across, running over half a kilometre under the lake bed, bisected at three regular intervals by parallel lines. It looked like a cattle brand, burned into the very earth, quenched beneath endless water. 

“I don’t know what you want me to see, Oromë,” Aulë chuckled. “All I know is that it can’t possibly be isoquantum.”

“Don’t know what I want you to see?” Oromë repeated, incredulously. “Aulë - you built it!” Oromë punched at more keys and the representation shifted, turning on its axis to present a side view of the image. The straight lines of the lattice revealed themselves to be ever so slightly curved, bowed out like the hull of an enormous ship. “Familiar now?”

Aulë stared in silent disbelief at the image, as though faced with a ghost. “No,” he said at length, shaking his head. “No, that’s...that’s not possible.”

“Aulë,” Manwë addressed the engineer quietly, “what is he talking about?” Aulë fixed the Commander with a look that bordered on contrition. 

“Computer,” Aulë said shakily, “bring up the schematics for Light and Metaphysical Power Station South - Singularity Section.” With an obedient bleep, the computer displayed the huge, spherical expanse of steel ribbing that had topped Illuin and contained the raging artificial star that had helped to power Almaren before Melkor had seen to its destruction. Aulë swiped through page after page of blueprints until he came to the one he was looking for. 

“We assumed the entire tower had been vaporised,” Aulë said, his voice beginning to break. “But there’s no doubt about it...that’s part of Illuin.” The Valar’s eyes flickered between the two images - Oromë’s map and the blueprint of one solitary slice of the singularity section - and tensions in the room, already at breaking point due to several pints of coffee all hitting the system at once, managed to ratchet up another notch. “It must have been blasted loose before the singularity imploded.”

“Bit of a coincidence,” Tulkas grunted, “that it landed smack bang in the middle of a lake.”

Nessa turned slowly to her partner, a look of unrestrained disgust on her face. “The lake formed  _ on top  _ of it,” she hissed. “Idiot.”

“Great Gods,” Námo breathed. “How much radiation has that thing been pumping out?”

“It...it doesn’t bear thinking about,” Aulë stammered, his ruddy face draining of colour. “Irmo, what, erm,” he stuttered, “how-how dangerous...?”

Irmo cleared his throat. “No studies have ever been carried out,” he mumbled, clearly aghast at the implications. “Isoquantum’s too...obscure, too rare, to have ever been subjected that level of testing. But...I can’t imagine it having any effect on DNA but an extremely profound one.”

Oromë scoffed. “You could say that,” he replied, bringing up another image - his scan of the Minyar camp. “These people are  _ riddled _ with isoquantum radiation.” Aulë cradled his head in his hands in grief as the scale of the exposure dawned on him, and the other Valar groaned with shock.

“Gods above, Oromë,” Vana whispered, “what effect has this had on you? Are you...alright?”

“I don’t feel like I’m going the way of Ulmo, if that’s what you mean,” Oromë said brusquely. “But I’m sure Irmo and Estë can give me a look-over while they’re examining the Eldar.” The ill-tempered silence between Commander and Lord Commander weighed upon the room like a ton of bricks. “Like it or not, Commander,” Oromë finally said, “we are responsible for these people.” Manwë seethed.

“You can have one day,” he acquiesced. “ _ One. _ ” Oromë nodded and ended the connection without another word. 

“With all due respect, Commander, one day probably won’t-”

Irmo’s words were cut off abruptly as Manwë immediately took to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground as he stormed out of the meeting room without another word. Varda said a hurried farewell to her colleagues before charging out after him.

“What the hell was that?” She barked down the corridor as Manwë stalked away, briefly stopping with his shoulders hunched and fists clenched. 

“It’s an obsession,” Manwë hissed through gritted teeth. “It knows no bounds. He’s fixated on these...these  _ creatures  _ of his!” 

“Those  _ creatures _ ,” Varda rebuked him, “exist because of us! They never asked to be born!” Manwë growled and shook his head, striding down the corridor without another word to his wife. “What’s your problem with them?” Varda shouted after him as the other Valar slowly began to exit the room behind her, trying to slink away without causing too much awkwardness.

“Well, I think that’s enough excitement for one night,” Tulkas quipped, yawning, as Nessa reached up to clip his ear. 

Something told Varda she wouldn’t be sleeping at all. 


	27. Part 4: Antiphon - Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, again. Real life has gotten in the way, again. Humble thanks and best wishes, always.
> 
> Phil

For days, Ingwë had waxed lyrical, bursting at the seams with nervous excitement for his upcoming trip. The chieftain of the Minyar had been walking on air ever since Oromë had scared his tribe half to death by landing his “shuttle”, as he called it, at the foot of their camp, and promised to take him to meet his people. His strange friend had been mostly absent in that time, talking with his superiors - across land and sea, imagine it! - regarding his visit, leaving Ingwë with nothing to do but count down the hours until his departure. It came as some surprise to him, then, when he awoke on the fifth day to find every Elda in Middle-Earth camped outside his door.

The Nelyar and Tatyar, he was told as he caught his breath in the peace and solitude of his own tent, removed from the unimaginable noise and commotion, had immediately struck camp upon hearing the news of Oromë’s invitation and marched without rest until they reached the Minyar, with more clans arriving every day until the Eldar at Cuiviénen numbered in the thousands.

Before he had even had time to process the information, a pair of bickering delegations called upon him, demanding that representatives from their tribes accompany him on his journey, just as Oromë had instructed. Finwë and Elwë, the chieftains of clans Findis of the Tatyar and Elur of the Nelyar respectively, put themselves forth as candidates, that they might petition the Ainur for aid in finding the whereabouts of their missing subjects. Utterly swept up, Ingwë agreed to take not only them, but their wives as well.

“It’s times like these when I thank the stars that I’m not married yet,” Ingwë complained to Oromë later. “Apparently Finwë’s wife threatened to march the entire clan back north if she couldn’t go with him.”

Oromë laughed, but the warmth in his smile slowly drained away. “I don’t know what I’ll say to her,” he muttered. “I haven’t the first clue.”

“Who?” Ingwë asked.

“Vana,” Oromë replied. “My wife.” Ingwë’s eyebrows rose dramatically.

“You didn’t tell me you were married!” He said. “How long have you been away from her?”

Oromë bowed his head. Even if he could remember the exact amount of time, there was no way Ingwë could comprehend it. “Too long,” he replied with a sad smile. Ingwë took his friend’s arm tenderly.

“You’ve earned your reunion,” he said softly. “This will be a happy day.” Oromë shook his head firmly.

“No, I...I chose this,” he replied. “I left my people of my own free will. I was hunting a...someone who had wronged us,” he explained as well as he could within the limitations of Quenya. “But I forgot my people...left them far behind in my thoughts. I am returning in dishonour,” he finished, letting out a shuddering breath. A strange kind of fear gripped him, the paralysing madness that kept men cowered in burning buildings out of terror of the jump.

“When I send out our youths to hunt their first beast,” Ingwë said, “I am never happier than when I see them return, red with gore, satchels full, eyes afire. In that moment, all that matters to me is that they are safe - no other worry in the world can hurt me. Your wife and your people will feel the same,” he reassured him. Oromë nodded.

“I hope so,” he replied quietly. “How do you feel?”

“Hard to describe,” Ingwë replied. “I’m excited, but...also scared. What I’m about to do will change the lives of my people forever. For the first time in my life I am...uncertain. Am I doing the right thing?”

Oromë sighed. “That’s the problem of being a leader,” he said. “No-one can tell you how to do your job.”

The pair were interrupted by Ingwë’s guard entering the tent unannounced and addressing his chieftain. “Sir, Finwë and Elwë are growing impatient. They wish to know when they can expect to leave.”

Oromë shot Ingwë a meaningful look, who inhaled deeply and took to his feet. “Now. We leave now.” The guard departed, wide-eyed.

“Now that’s what I call leadership,” Oromë congratulated Ingwë, standing and clapping him on the back. The slender elf stumbled forward under Oromë’s blow, but quickly regained his composure.

“Well,” Ingwë replied, clearing his throat, “let’s go, then. Before I change my mind,” he quipped, exiting the tent arm-in-arm with his friend.

* * *

 “Where d’you want ‘em, guv?” Tulkas bellowed as he slammed a massive crate to the ground. Irmo grimaced in horror.

“PLEASE be careful, Tulkas!” The doctor screeched, arms outstretched as though he were trying to calm a rampaging bull. “That’s incredibly sensitive equipment!”

Tulkas nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But where d’you want ‘em?”

Irmo groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Second floor, please,” he muttered, as Tulkas attached a dangling hook to the crate’s webbing and gave an unseen worker above him the thumbs-up. “Why did you let him near the quantum resonator?” Irmo hissed to his wife, rubbing his face in frustration.

“You said we needed all the help we could get,” Estë retorted, scrolling through a long list on her tablet. “And you know what? We do. They’re here tomorrow and right now, this hospital could barely take their blood pressure.”

Irmo sighed deeply and bent double, pressing his forehead to the cool marble balustrade of the mezzanine from which he and Estë were organising the reconstruction of the hospital. Dozens of Maiar and a few of the Valar tramped in and out of the building carrying box after box of medical equipment, electrical cables, computer servers and displays; turning the building from a shell into a hospital.

During the construction of Valinor, the blueprint that had built Almaren had been ripped up. Taking advantage of their unlimited resources and timescales, the Ainur had made a city that their long-dead families back on Ain would have considered a home fit for gods. But nestled at the outskirts of the city, dwarfed by towers and spires reaching over a mile into the sky, one building had been rebuilt exactly as it stood in Almaren, brick-for-brick; Irmo and Estë’s hospital, still a beautiful mess of pale stone and snaking vines, stood resilient and unchanged, like a bent nail in a timber which refuses to be pulled. Through millennia of disuse, however, their once-cutting-edge equipment had rusted away into nothing or been reclaimed by the ever-encroaching plantlife that consumed the building.

“Irmo! Estë!” Nessa called from up the stairs behind them. “We’re ready to tackle the third floor.”

Irmo turned and almost stumbled off the mezzanine in horror as he saw Nessa carrying what appeared to be a travel-sized flamethrower.

“No!” He cried out, scampering up the steps two at a time. “No, no, no, absolutely not! You will _not_ use that thing on my plants!”

“Your pl-Irmo, this isn’t a window box, it’s a fucking jungle! Do you want this place to be a hospital or not?” Nessa shot back at him, red-cheeked. Irmo winced as though the decision were causing him genuine pain.

“Do we _have_ to use the-?” He pleaded, pointing dismissively to Nessa’s weed burner.

“It’s either that, or…” Nessa replied, unsheathing a large machete and offering Irmo the handle. The doctor recoiled and held his hands up, defeated.

“Fine, fine,” he relented, heading back down the stairs as Nessa cursed under her breath. “Gods, I swear it wasn’t this much trouble last time.”

“Yes, well, last time, we had a spaceship,” Estë replied through gritted teeth, “and a thousand people helping.”

“Last time we were only human,” Irmo grumbled. “What’s our excuse now?”

“If you can do it _so_ much better,” Estë finally snapped, slamming her tablet onto the balustrade, “then make yourself useful for once!” She stormed off down the stairs to the main entrance as Irmo’s lips flapped dumbly.  

“Making myself-I’ve been-what do you mean?” He babbled.

“You’ve done nothing but stand and moan for the last six hours, while other people have done all the work for you!” Estë shouted back at him, her deep voice resounding off of stone walls and floors, making everyone in the building party to their argument. “You pick and you fuss, but when it comes to doing the heavy lifting you act like you’re too good for it!” After a brief period of rubber-necking, the crewmen silently went on with their tasks, pretending the bickering couple weren’t there. Irmo looked down, abashed. Estë’s bone-white eyes burned a hole through to the back of his head until he finally met her gaze.

“Sorry,” he murmured, shoulders hunched and stooping. “I just...this place, being a...a real hospital again, it…” He shuddered and shook his head. Estë’s anger began to abate as she recognised the pain her husband had long kept hidden from all but her. “It feels weird, having to be a doctor again. It took me so long to accept it was all over,” he sniffled, “and now having to pick it all up again? On alien life-forms? I don’t know if I can-”

“Irmo,” Estë said, taking her husband’s hand, unfurrowing her brow with great effort. “It’s alright. You’re here because you are _the_ best doctor, ever. Remember that. And remember-” she said, taking Irmo’s cheek in her hand as he finally returned her gaze, “-it wasn’t your fault.”

Irmo let out a ragged breath and clasped his wife’s hand, nodding and smiling sadly. “You’re wrong about one thing, though,” he whispered. “ _You’re_ the best doctor ever.” Estë laughed softly and kissed Irmo’s lips. “I’ll go help Aulë calibrate the infra-reds,” he said, straightening back up to his full, imposing height like a tree recovering from a gale. “I’m sure I can manage that, at least.” As he bounded up the stairs, Estë’s smile faltered into a concerned frown, not made better when she noticed she had cracked her tablet screen.

“Is he alright?” Yavanna asked from behind Estë. The doctor spun around, surprised, and let out a long breath.

“Irmo-” Estë began, pausing to consider her words. “Irmo...has felt uncertain of his abilities, professionally, for a while,” she said slowly. “He still blames himself.”

Yavanna groaned sadly and shook her head. “It wasn’t his-”

“I know,” Estë interrupted her softly, touching Yavanna’s arm. “He knows. But…” Estë paused once more and crossed her arms. “To a doctor, sometimes, when we fail to save someone’s life, it can feel as bad as if we’d killed them ourselves. Call it...professional pride, or hubris, if you must, but...that’s what Irmo is feeling. On a scale I can’t even begin to imagine,” she concluded, shaking her head solemnly.

“Will he be okay?” Yavanna asked. Estë nodded.

“As soon as he gets that stethoscope back around his neck, it’ll be like nothing has changed. That’s professional pride for you,” she replied, smiling. Yavanna squeezed her arm tenderly and headed back down to the main entrance, where yet more boxes waited to be unpacked and carried off.

* * *

Varda closed her eyes as the elevator tore up the side of her building, letting the hum of the motors and the patches of Treelight that danced on her eyelids give her a brief semblance of rest. She hadn’t slept more than an hour in four days, personally coordinating much of the first contact proceedings. Convention, of course, dictated that this would be the duty of the Lord Commander, but Varda had found a number of those duties thrust upon her for various reasons - all of them unpleasant.

The elevator ride ended even more swiftly than Varda had feared, and the doors swept open to reveal Ilmarë’s stern face wearing a ready-made look of disapproval. “Sorry, I know I’m late,” Varda apologised as she exited the elevator and set off in the direction of her office.

“They’ve started installing the medical equipment at the old hospital,” Ilmarë began, launching into her spiel without sentiment as she kept stride with her superior, “rooms at the palace have been selected for our visitors but we still need your go-ahead on the furnishings, and we still need to talk about food as well.”

“Are all of these on the agenda?” Varda asked as she opened a new message on her tablet.

“There wasn’t room for them when we thought you’d be here on time, let alone now,” llmare responded smartly. “I’ve deleted some topics from the agenda accordingly.”

As they reached the door to her office, Varda turned to regard her long-time right-hand woman. Immortality had changed all of them, but in no-one had the change been so profound as in Ilmarë. Once a mousy, retiring, borderline clumsy woman, she had become hyper-competent, ultra-confident and blunt to the point of rudeness. Whereas the majority of the Ainur comported themselves in garments as extravagant as they could imagine, Ilmarë could never be found outside a dark, exquisitely cut business suit and a pair of thick, ivory-rimmed glasses that gave the impression of a tenacious beast ready to butt heads. Some people just need the right amount of time to blossom, Varda remembered Manwë’s father once telling her. It just so happened that the amount of time Ilmarë required was in quadruple digits.

“You know, Ilmarë, if not for you, there’s no way I would have been able to pull all this together at such short notice,” Varda thanked her gently.

Ilmarë blinked. “I know,” she replied. Varda’s warm smile faded slowly as Ilmarë turned on her kitten heels and walked away.

“Charming,” Varda grumbled as she entered her office, almost deafened by the sound of the twenty crewmen crammed into it standing to attention at once. She bade them sit with a wave and took to her chair heavily as the crew perched on bookshelves, sat on mismatching chairs from across the building, or just squatted on the floor, gathering her thoughts before beginning.

“Thank you all,” she addressed her crew, “for everything you’ve done. We’re nearly there. I’ve just learned some good news,” she said brightly, tapping her tablet. “Vaire’s team have just finished the Quenya patch-” A round of cheers swept the room. “-so getting it installed before our visitors arrive shouldn’t be a problem.”

“So what’s the new problem?” One crewman remarked drolly, to sarcastic laughter. Varda’s silence turned the air sour.

“I’m going to need some of you to run the calibration on the forcefield,” she said at length. The room erupted in a mass outburst of disgust and exhaustion. “I know we’re all busy, but-”

“The forcefield is Commander Manwë’s responsibility,” another crewman, an older man with thinning hair and a bulbous double-chin, interrupted her. “Doesn’t he have anyone he can delegate to it?” Varda shook her head, her eyes fixed on the dark wood of her desk.

“Everyone’s at full stretch, Salmar; half of them have been seconded to Engineering for-”

“Well, then, he can do it himself!” Salmar replied forcefully, to a chorus of agreement. “We simply can’t spare the manpower!”

Varda’s lips clamped into a thin line, feeling the room turning on her. “I’m afraid the Commander is indisposed,” she replied tersely. The old crewman smiled mirthlessly and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and head shaking.

The tenor of the meeting did not improve over time; bad feeling hung like a cloud over the office and grew with each new task Varda assigned to her team. She could hardly fault them for complaining; they had already gone above and beyond what was expected of them at the shortest of notice, and now she was asking them to give even more. As the looks of frustration and defeat multiplied across the room, she felt a great bitterness well up inside her, an anger directed at one person - her husband.

As the meeting wound down to a close, the crew departed her office en masse before she’d even finished speaking. Powerless to stop them, Varda leaned back in her chair and covered her face with her hands, waiting until the door clicked shut to let out a long, pained growl. She wanted nothing more than to confront Manwë, drag him out of his dungeon into the light and castigate him for letting her down - but all she could do was wipe her eyes and activate her workstation. She had work to do.

* * *

Manwë stared down an endless tunnel of shimmering lights, interconnected and pulsating, and ran his hands across electric-blue tendrils; pushing some away, grasping onto others. He willed his vision to reach out farther, soaring through the black abyss to bring a glittering galaxy of silver stars to his fingertips. He paused. He closed his eyes and touched a light. Then another. He discarded light after light, tossing them aside like clothes in a drawer as he searched for the one he really wanted. He ran his hand over the lights in a single motion, as though trying to sense by touch. A glint of white caught his eye. Parting coalesced lights like a naturalist gently unfurling the petals of a flower, he exposed a single, diamond-white star. He closed his fingers around it and felt a small tingle as a charge passed through his hand. A progress bar appeared before his eyes, not quite half-full.

“Getting there,” he mumbled to himself.

“Getting where?” A voice boomed across his little universe. “The funny farm? Because that’s the impression you’re giving.”

Manwë pulled his headset off, wincing as the Tank’s harsh fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes. “When you’re not here, this makes it easier to work alone,” he defended himself, pulling a pair of gloves laced with wires from his hands. “Being able to visualise it gives me an edge.”

“It gives me the willies,” Námo quipped as he floated past Manwë to look at the computer screen. “You look like a mime at a disco.”

“Better than looking like a ghost,” Manwë shot back, sitting down heavily and rubbing his temples.

“You keep using that much more, you’ll look a lot worse than I do,” Námo chastened him, pointing to the headset resting on the console. “That interface was only ever meant to be used as an overview, like a pair of binoculars -  never to actually perform maintenance for hours on end. Over-use it and I guarantee you’ll get more than a headache.”

“Yeah, well,” Manwë muttered. “Some things are worth a bit of pain for.”

“It’s not pain I’m talking about, Manwë,” Námo retorted, finally turning from the screen. His empty eyes glowed with blue light, soft yet intimidating. “Plugging yourself into the Tank is like jumping into the ocean. You’re awfully small, and a mind can quickly become lost. Ulmo learned that the hard way.”

“That was different,” Manwë shot back, meeting Námo’s gaze, with an angry bite to his voice. “That was an accident, it couldn’t be helped.”

“And yet you can help yourself,” Námo replied calmly, gliding closer to Manwë. “Take a step back. You’ve been doing this for longer than most people’s lifetimes.”

“And you know _exactly_ why I’m doing this,” Manwë said, rising from his seat in frustration. “Don’t you think that’s worth my time?”

“Time, yes,” Námo said. “A life?” He shook his head. “The dead don’t want the living to join them.”

Manwë ran a hand through his hair and paced back and forth. “What would you have me do?” He asked Námo. “Give up? Now, after all this time, when we’ve made real progress?” He pointed a finger accusingly. “You don’t want me to find him, do you?”

Námo bristled. “This is not a matter of what I want,” he said dismissively. “It’s a matter of what’s best for you.”

“I made a promise!” Manwë barked. “I sent him away! Into the dark, into nothingness! I promised I would see him again! Wouldn’t you do the same for someone you loved?”

Silence passed over them as Námo glanced downwards, composing himself. “I like to think,” he said softly, “that by now I would have learned to appreciate those I still have left.” Manwë’s brow furrowed, insulted, as Námo continued, thunderous and angry. “This is not a promise; this an obsession, Manwë. You have ignored the world, your people, your _wife_ , for over a century. You have treated us like playthings so you can rot down here with your regrets and your bitterness, and try desperately to patch up the past, like a madman screaming at the tide to roll back.” Manwë’s scowl melted into a wide-eyed stare as Námo stalked closer, his ghostly feet brushing the ground like the train of a dress. “Melkor is dead,” the old man spat. “He’s dead, Manwë. And he’s not the only one, we lost…” Námo stopped, clenching withered fists and staring upwards as he inhaled deeply, “we lost a lot of very good friends that day. And we did what we could, yes, but there comes a point where you have to let go. Let go and...keep on living. So carry on, if you want, but I’ll not be helping you anymore.”

Manwë felt his knees tremble as Námo’s words cut to the very core of him, throat dry and stomach churning. “I just wanted to...” he mumbled, unconsciously gripping a server stack to support himself. “I couldn’t stop it, so I just wanted to...fix it,” he sighed raggedly. Námo shook his head.

“It’s not me you need to be having this conversation with, Manwë,” he said simply. Manwë gulped hard and nodded.

“Thank you, old friend,” he whispered, resting a hand on Námo’s shoulder. The old Vision bobbed downwards under the weight before nodding and retreating. Manwë glanced up towards the thousand steps up to the surface, when he was struck with inspiration. With nervous eyes making sure Námo had left him alone, he sat at the console and began to type. If this was the last time he was down here, he wasn’t going to leave his brother alone.

* * *

By the time Manwë had returned to the city the light from the Trees had turned deep blue, tinting its marble as silver as moonlight. Usually, he could expect to see most of his people revelling in the streets at this time of night; drinking, dancing and debauchery had been the principle pursuits of the Valinoreans for the past few centuries, until the discovery of the Eldar had shocked them back into work. Now, Valinor felt almost like a ghost town, its people pulling all-nighters to prepare for Oromë’s return the next morning or tucked sensibly into bed. Manwë walked home through deserted streets, accompanied only by automated garbage disposal rovers vainly patrolling the pavements for litter to sweep up.

“Hello, Commander,” one chirped as it floated past him.

“Evening, Luca,” Manwë replied automatically before stopping in his tracks. He suddenly remembered, from almost a millennium ago, the first days after Nessa had uploaded AI into the rovers (“Kills a decade, innit?”) and the joy they had all felt at having someone new to talk to after so long. Valar and Maiar alike would stop at street corners and talk to the rovers for hours on end, spilling their guts to machines out of sheer excitement. Eventually, the rovers had become part of the furniture, and exhausted their limited AI. The Ainur simply forgot about their one-time friends and left them to their business, never exchanging more than a pleasantry as they went about theirs.

“Funny,” Manwë said with a sad smile, “the things you forget.” He passed rest of his journey home alone, and headed straight for his office upon entering the palace.

“I’ll talk to her in the morning,” he muttered to himself as he turned onto the corridor leading to the office. “I should probably-”

A sliver of light glowed through the crack in the door, casting a slender golden stalagmite on the dark wall opposite it. Someone, Manwë realised, was in his office. His stomach gurgled as he realised who it could only be.

Varda sat at Manwë’s desk, head in her hands, a computer screen either side of her. Her long, black hair, tangled and matted, spilled over the wood like the tendrils of a diseased plant trying to strangle a tree. The muffled bang of the door swinging shut snapped her out of what appeared to be a brief slumber. “Sorry, Ilmarë, I-” Varda’s eyes widened minutely when she saw, not her aide, but her husband standing before her.

“That’s not your chair,” he said. Varda straightened up, taken aback. She couldn’t place Manwë’s tone at all; somewhere between confused and belligerent.

“Isn’t it?” She replied, feeling her body stiffen.  “No-one’s been sitting in it for a while.”

Manwë sighed deeply, running his fingers along his desk. Varda was right; it had been a long time since he had done any work there. He smiled shyly.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” Varda growled through clenched teeth. Manwë, unwillingly, complied. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing in my own office?” Manwë asked, scoffing. “If anyone has a right to be here-”

“You know what I mean,” Varda interrupted him, digging her elbows into the table. “Why now? What could you possibly have to say to me, right now?”

Manwë’s smiled faded as he swallowed hard. “I’d hoped you’d be asleep,” he said softly. “I didn’t want us to have this conversation now.” He looked down at the swirling patterns of the wood, feeling his wife staring at him murderously.

Varda’s brow knitted tighter and tighter, her eyes boring deeper and deeper into Manwë’s skull until the tension in her face released itself in a twittering laugh. Manwë looked up, even more worried than before. “You thought I’d be asleep?” She replied, laughing even more as she pushed her hair back and tied it. “That’s a classic, Manwë, it really is.”

“I don’t get-”

“Of course you don’t,” Varda cut him off, the ironic mirth in her voice evaporating in an instant along with her smile. “I haven’t slept in four days. I haven’t eaten in two. I haven’t been for a piss since yesterday!” She barked, her soft features hardening into a mask of fury. “Do you know what I’ve been doing, Manwë? Do you? Do you know? Your job!” Her words echoed endlessly off the marble floor and ceiling of the office, momentarily giving her the voice of a goddess. “For all intents and purposes, I have run Valinor for a long time and you know it, don’t you?” Manwë looked down again, unable to bear Varda’s accusatory stare any longer. “This is the single most important event in...I don’t want to imagine how long, and what have you been doing? Hanging out with the dead!”

Manwë’s head snapped up as Varda cut to the heart of him, eyes full of pain. “I’m done,” he croaked, clearing his throat. “Really, I...it wasn’t possible,” he sighed. “Never was.” Varda stared at him, tight-lipped, exhaling slowly.

“And you had the nerve,” she said darkly, rising from her chair and walking around the desk, “to condemn Oromë all these years for staying away. You really think that just because you stayed in Valinor you weren’t running away, too? Both of you, with your pointless little quests, because your massive egos couldn’t stand the fact that you failed.” Manwë flinched as though Varda had punched him. “At least Oromë found something useful, what about you? What the hell have you done or learned in the last hundred and twenty-something years that could possibly be of any help to ANY of us?” She ranted.

“I’m sorry,” Manwë replied, eyes fixed to his feet like a scolded child.

“Sorry?” Varda repeated, one corner of her mouth curled upwards in an exasperated smirk. “You’re sorry? Sorry for abandoning your post for the last century? Sorry for ignoring your friends and loved ones for a dead man? Sorry for being so removed from reality you don’t even see how important the Eldar are to-”

“I-” Manwë interrupted her. Varda tilted her head dangerously to one side, like a snake preparing to strike, as Manwë unrooted himself from the spot and paced up and down the length of the desk, gathering his thoughts. “I had a job. A mission,” he said at length. “To save my brother and keep this world safe for the next ones. That was Eru’s will.”

“Eru is dead,” Varda replied flatly. “So is Melkor.”

“But I had to try, don’t you see?” Manwë continued. “As long as it was possible, I had a duty to do right by him, I promised!”

“You ignored your life for him!” Varda rebuked him. “You’ve ignored the Eldar, living, breathing creatures that we-”

“This isn’t about...them,” Manwë interrupted, scowling in frustration. “This is about us, Varda, I...I just wanted to say, I’m sorry, I’m done with all that. I just…I want to move on, I want to make things right.”

“Well, you can start making things right by taking some fucking interest in what I’ve been doing! Maybe even helping once in a while!” Varda shouted. “This ISN’T just about us, Manwë, not any more; we have responsibilities now. We have the Eldar to-”

“Will you STOP calling them that!” Manwë exploded, slamming his first into the table, breathing heavily. Varda took a step back in shock, eyeing her husband with suspicion and anger.

“Excuse me?” Varda said, dark and threatening, like the rumble of thunder that precedes a storm.

“ _Eldar_ ,” Manwë spat. “As though these were...real people.” He leaned heavily on the table, shoulders hunched and nose wrinkled in a grimace.

“They live,” Varda replied lowly, the slow tap of her shoes on the marble echoing as she advanced. “They breathe. That’s more than we do. They’re more than we are.”

“They’re NOTHING like us!” Manwë hissed, turning to freeze Varda in place with a mad-eyed glare. “They’re a...a mistake! A perversion! An industrial accident!” He roared, slamming his fist into the table again. “This planet was made for true-born Ain, not these...mutants.” Manwë stared out of the balcony doors at the city below and seethed. “I am the Commander of Arda,” he growled, “Lord of the Ainur. Of the _Ainur_ ,” he repeated, glaring at Varda again, her chest puffed out with a breath that wouldn’t release. “Not the Eldar.”

Silence layered the room like sediment as Manwë turned away from his wife to gaze out to the city below them. “I envy you,” Varda breathed at last, her whole body slowly going slack like a puppet with its strings cut. “That you can bear such loneliness.” Manwë stood impassive, statue-like in the silver light of the Trees, cold and remote. Shaking her head, Varda turned away. “We’ll leave you to it, Manwë, if that’s what you want,” she said sadly as she walked to the door. “But the rest of us...we’re sick of being alone.”

Manwë barely registered the soft click of the door’s closing. Memories were laying siege to his brain; memories of what he had lost. Of who he had lost.

They had each other. He had been alone for centuries.


	28. Part 4: Antiphon - Chapter 28

**Apologies for the long, long delay. Many thanks to my faithful readers, whose kind comments keep me going.**

**Phil**

* * *

_The room should have been white, tinted blue from the glow of computer screens, but it was red. Red emergency lights blazed in place of the soft white glow of overhead strip lights and illuminated floor panes, casting threatening shadows across the gangways and the mass of frightened technicians who ran to and fro along them. Manwë stood outside the elevator at the head of the cobweb of catwalks, watching the chaos for a stunned moment before joining the throng and pushing his way down to the floor of the control room._

_“Irmo,” he boomed as he approached the main console, crewmen scurrying out of his path, “talk to me!”_

_“Pods are failing one by one,” Irmo replied without turning around. “There’s no pattern to it, no sequence. It’s almost as if it’s jumping through thin air.”_

_“What IS it?”_

_“I haven’t the first clue,” Irmo admitted, pushing his hands through his long, ratty blonde hair. “I don’t know what could cause such...devastation,” he said numbly._

_“What can you do?” Manwë asked. “Irmo?” He asked again when the doctor didn’t respond. “Irmo, what can you do?” He pressed him, desperate for some good news. Irmo span around his chair, his eyes glazed over as though he were dreaming._

_“Nothing,” he shrugged. “This is it. This is how it ends.” Manwë’s eyes widened in horror as Irmo slipped down from his seat and knelt on the floor, pressing his hands together and chanting the prayers of his faith._

_A mighty blow across the cheek snapped Irmo painfully back into reality, as Manwë stood above him, hand raised and teeth bared. “Snap out of it, Irmo!” He bellowed as crewmen gasped in shock. “You’re a Valar of Ain. You’re the greatest mind on this planet. That means,” he grunted as he grabbed Irmo by the lapels and lifted him back into his seat, “you are not allowed to fail!”_

_Irmo took a few breaths to steady himself and nodded slowly. “Yes, Commander,” he whispered. “Yes, of course.”_

_“There’s something,” Manwë pleaded with him. “There must be something. There’s_ **_always_ ** _something. Isn’t there?” Irmo stared past Manwë, as though the answer lay in the distance. Slowly, he began to nod._

_“There’s something,” he agreed. “Maybe. But…”_

_“What? But what?” Manwë asked frantically, gripping Irmo’s shoulders._

_“It’s not perfect. Not at all,” he said, shaking his head with abject fear in his eyes._

_“How not perfect are we talking?” Manwë asked, barely keeping the desperation from his voice as he cajoled his chief medical officer._

_“I can’t save us all,” Irmo replied flatly. “More will die. Who, I...don’t know. But they will die,” he said, his lips clamping into a tight line. Manwë nodded grimly._

_“Do it,” he ordered._

* * *

Irmo fiddled absent-mindedly with a creeper entwined in his hair, letting conversation pass entirely over him. Estë and Nienna had been talking for some time; about what, he couldn’t be sure. His thoughts had been light years away since the moment he entered the palace courtyard and the reality of the situation had hit him; these creatures, these Eldar, really were coming, and he really was going to have to be a doctor again. Retirement, he’d thought, had suited him; he had tended his garden, caught up on a couple of centuries’ worth of reading, furthered his understanding of his religion. His fingers turned pages and tended plants; they didn’t take pulses and make incisions.

A sharp dig in the ribs brought the world back into focus. “Are you with us?” His wife asked, impatience written across her face.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he mumbled, straightening his flower crown and clearing his throat.

“So, what do you think?” Irmo’s blank stare betrayed his inattentiveness. Estë groaned in frustration, bringing her fingers to her temples.

“We were talking,” Nienna said softly, “about how...intimate we think the Eldar will allow us to be in our study of them. They must have cultural taboos we don’t know about.”

“Oh,” Irmo replied, slightly thrown for a loop. “I...hadn’t considered it, to be honest.” Nienna’s eyes, which already looked too large for her head, bulged so much Irmo feared they might fall out. “I’m just hoping I remember which end of a catheter to put in, frankly,” he muttered, gulping. Nienna’s shock turned to understanding as she picked up on the deep concern and self-doubt sloughing off of Irmo’s psyche.

“You’re going to be great, doctor,” Nienna reassured him, squeezing his hand. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Irmo replied with a smile as Varda’s arrival was announced by the Captain of the Guard. Crewmen and Valar alike stood to attention as she entered the courtyard, resplendent in a long, dark blue gown and conspicuously wearing the chain of the Lord Commander’s office. Irmo and Estë shared a meaningful look before inclining their heads together to greet their friend.

“Well,” Varda said breezily, “here we are, then.” Nods went around the group for several seconds longer than was comfortable. They all understood, but none would say it - Manwë would not be present.

“Will Vana be coming?” Nienna asked, desperate to puncture the awkward atmosphere.

“No,” Varda replied at once, with entirely too much enthusiasm. “No,” she repeated, more calmly. “She’s at home, Yavanna is keeping her company. She thought seeing Oromë again here might be...too much.” The group nodded again, sombrely. “Is everything ready?” She asked the doctors.

“Yes, we’re ready to go as soon as possible,” Estë confirmed, but everyone’s attention - including her own - was drawn to the unmistakable sound of an approaching shuttle, albeit one badly in need of repair. Hearts fluttered and mouths dried as they straightened their attire and prepared to make first contact.

As the battered, mud-streaked shuttle groaned and limped its way down into the courtyard,  Varda ran her words through her mind once more. _You represent your entire species_ , she reminded herself. _Don’t screw this up._ Instead of touching down softly, the shuttle fell the last dozen feet like a stone, its hull crumpling with a cacophony of metal. All gathered threw their hands up instinctively as crewmen rushed to open up the wreck. The side door slid open with the ear-piercing whine of twisted steel, and Oromë jumped down into the crowd.

“No, no, I’m fine!” He boomed, swatting away the technicians trying to tend to him. “Help them down!” He told him, hooking his thumb back to the door where Ingwë stood, as nervous as a deer and probably regretting his decision. As the crewmen filed past Oromë to offer hands up to the shaken Eldar, he squinted as he beheld his old friends for the first time in over a century. He put their wide eyes and slack jaws down to shock at his crash landing, and raised a hand in greeting.

“Oh, my word, where’s the rest of him?” Irmo muttered through clenched teeth, unable to tear his eyes off of the ‘new’ Oromë pacing towards them. His meticulously-shaved head and military moustache had given way to a thicket of hair reaching to his stomach, and he was less than half the breadth he’d been when he left.

“Are we sure that’s the same man? I mean, are we _really_ sure?” Estë whispered, flashing a rictus smile as Oromë nodded her way.

“Commander,” Oromë addressed Varda, saluting. “Lieutenant Commander Oromë, reporting back from the field. With civilians,” he added, looking back to the shuttle, where the Eldar were being cajoled out like cats stuck up a tree, with a smile. Varda stood, speechless, for a long moment, before launching herself forward and wrapping her arms around Oromë’s waist, nearly bowling him over.

“It’s so good to have you back,” she breathed, as Oromë wrapped his arms around her shoulders and embraced her tightly. “My hands touch,” she laughed, squeezing his slimmed-down sides.

“I could probably stand to hit the gym,” Oromë concurred. As Varda released her grip, the rest of the attending Valar crowded around Oromë and mobbed him with hugs of their own. “Easy, easy!” He protested facetiously. “Save some for my wife.”

“How are you feeling about that?” Nienna asked, clasping his huge hand with hers. Oromë grimaced.

“Do you know any good florists?”

Shocked laughter rocked the quartet. None could recall ever having heard Oromë crack a joke before. Selfishly, Varda wondered if his time away hadn’t been to Oromë’s benefit. Behind them, the Eldar had finally disembarked and were being gently corralled forwards, their eyes fixed on anywhere but the welcoming committee; staring at the plantlife in the courtyard, gazing up to the top of the palace, but most of all turning around in circles like children making themselves dizzy to take in the wonder of a lit sky.

“Ingwë!” Oromë called to his friend, who tore his gaze from the aurorae above him only with great difficulty. Oromë beckoned him over, and Ingwë complied sheepishly, suddenly shy, without the bearing of strength and dignity that Oromë had seen every day as he walked among his people. “Ingwë,” he began in Quenya, “I am pleased to introduce my friends; Nienna, Irmo, Estë, and Varda - she is my commander. Comrades,” he continued in Ain, “this is Ingwë; chieftain of the Minyar.” Ingwë smiled nervously and bowed.

Momentarily, the Valar forgot themselves and stared in wonder at the beautiful creature before them. Ingwë’s pale skin seemed to glow in the light from the Trees far to the east, almost coruscating, like the mingling of the lights at dawn and dusk. “Gods above,” Estë breathed, closing the gap between the two of them, causing Ingwë to flinch. “It’s alright,” she whispered, holding her hands up as Oromë laid a hand gently on his shoulder. Slowly she stretched her arms out and, with a reassuring smile, laid her fingers on Ingwë’s cheek. “Nienna, how is he?” she asked as Ingwë regarded her with a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment.

“He’s okay,” Nienna replied, smiling to herself as she realised she could sense these creatures. “He’s...scared, but excited. And he’s very confused,” she added. “Understandable, really.” Estë smiled wide, toothy grin.

“Of course,” she said softly, withdrawing her hand. “Of course.”

“I take it,” Oromë muttered to Varda, aside from the little circus that had formed around Ingwë, “that we won’t be seeing Manwë here today?” He fixed her with a look far more reminiscent of the Oromë she knew; hard, cynical and unamused. Varda shook her head, ashamed. Oromë scowled. “No matter. He doesn’t need to be here.” Varda nodded and forced a smile, but to see her husband’s staunchest ally speak so dismissively of him, somehow, hurt her more than his cruelty ever could.

The other Eldar congregated alongside Ingwë and made their introductions; handshakes were exchanged, names repeated. “You speak our language very well,” Finwë complimented the Valar. “Ingwë tells us it took Oromë many hands to learn it.” The Valar shared surreptitious looks, each unwilling to be the first to admit ignorance.

“Oh,” Oromë butted in, sparing their blushes. “The Eldar measure time by the passage of the stars across the sky. They measure it with their fingers, like so-” Oromë raised his palm to the sky, fingers together and thumb outstretched. “For a star to cross all four fingers takes about a week, give or take.” The Valar nodded appreciatively.

“Well, like you, we’re very fast learners,” Varda replied. “And there is an awful lot we would like to learn about you-”

“But first,” Oromë boomed, “food! It’s been a very long journey.” The Valar agreed, and Varda led the way into the palace, with the Eldar trailing in her wake, still transfixed by a blue sky.

* * *

Manwë stood atop his tower, once more staring out to sea. The waters had been calmer of late; by all accounts, Ulmo had thrown himself into work alongside Varda and Nessa following his improvements in health, and his eased mind was reflected in the opalescent shimmer of the water below. On the horizon, however, the sky broiled and blackened, a downpour imminent.

The shuttle’s crash-landing had barely diverted his attention. While his friends and loved ones communed with alien beings far below him, Manwë was lost in bitter isolation, fingernails worrying white gouges into the stonework. _How dare they_ , he thought. _Today, of all days._

_The Tank had been stripped of all but the most essential personnel. Manwë had ordered that every citizen of Valinor go home and make peace with their loved ones, should the unthinkable happen._

_“It’ll work,” Manwë reassured Varda with a smirk. “Irmo’s too good.”_

_The couple stared into each other’s eyes in silence for a long second . “But what if-”_

_“It’ll work,” Manwë repeated slowly. “And I’ll be back in no time.”_

_“You’d better be,” Ulmo interjected, his head swaying into view of the camera. “I’m not being her rebound.”_

_Manwë chuckled. The connection crackled. “She’d eat you alive,” he retorted._

_“I hate this,” Varda breathed, rubbing puffy eyes. “Saying goodbye over a video connection, after all we’ve-”_

_“Well, it’s a good thing it’s not goodbye, isn’t it?” Manwë interrupted her. “Because it’ll-”_

_“If you say it’ll work one more time, I’ll turn you off!” Varda snapped._

_“You couldn’t possibly,” Manwë muttered lasciviously. “When I get back, I’m going to-”_

_“Excuse me, Commander Erection,” a voice roared, “but do I have to remind you that time is not our fucking friend right now?” Manwë pursed his lips in shock._

_“Was that Irmo?” Varda asked, astonished at the doctor’s uncharacteristic outburst. “We really are in trouble, aren’t we?”_

_Manwë nodded sadly. “If we get through this - which we will,” he interjected with a meaningful glance, “we’ll owe it all to him. Make sure he’s remembered.” Varda nodded solemnly. It was the closest her husband, the optimistic fool, would get to saying goodbye._

_“Good luck,” she said. “I love you.”_

_“I love you too,” Manwë replied, kissing his fingers and holding them to the camera lens as he severed the video connection._

_“Sorry,” Irmo mumbled, frantically typing command lines into a screen which seemed like it was fighting back, as Manwë turned to face him._

_“Get me out of this alive, and we’ll say no more about it,” Manwë replied drily. Behind him, technicians slaved over a serpentine knot of cables, occasionally glancing back towards their commander with a look bordering somewhere between fear and guilt. Manwë locked eyes with one; slender and callow, he must have been one of the last-born. “Get them to leave as soon as they’re done,” Manwë said to Irmo quietly. “They should be with their loved ones.”_

_“Tell them yourself,” Irmo shot back, eyes still fixed on the massive screen at the front of the Tank’s control room. “They’re professionals, Manwë. What’s more, they’re the only ones who stayed behind, so what does that tell you about them?” Irmo stopped typing and turned to his side to fix Manwë with an angry stare. “They’ve got no-one,” he whispered. “All their loved ones are already dead, no doubt thanks to M-” Irmo held his tongue and exhaled slowly as Manwë’s eyebrows lowered dangerously. “Sometimes,” he began again, “there are no good options. Sometimes all you can hope for is a good death.” Irmo shrugged and returned to his work._

_Manwë leaned back in his chair, almost insouciantly. “This is new,” he remarked. Irmo’s eyes flickered sidewards briefly. “You. Never seen you so...cynical,” he said, with a hint of sadness._

_“That’s because I’m not me, Manwë, not right now. And probably not any more, either, if I live long enough to have an ‘any more’.” Manwë slowly straightened as Irmo spoke. “I’m a doctor. I heal. I cure. I tend the sick, I comfort the dying. I do,” he spat, “no harm. And yet, here I am,” he sighed bitterly, “doing...this. For the record,” he continued, facing Manwë once more, “if you and I survive this, and if there’s a Valinor left, I officially resign my commission. Find another doctor, because that’s not me.”_

_Manwë exhaled slowly. “It’s accepted,” he replied. “Officially. Do whatever you need.” The remaining minutes of work passed in silence but for the occasional crackle of arcing electricity from the malfunctioning servers flanking them. At last, Irmo threw his hands up and walked over to the gaggle of technicians._

_“Are we ready?” He asked impatiently. The technicians nodded and parted, allowing Irmo to grasp their creation in both hands;a large metal helmet, criss-crossed with wires and electrodes, and an augmented-reality viewfinder welded haphazardly to it. “This is something we were working on,” Irmo explained as Manwë rose to inspect it. “A method by which one could actually physically_ **_see_ ** _the electronic layout of the Tank; we called it Soulmap.”_

_“And that helps us how?” Manwë asked._

_“If our adjustments are correct, then with this on, you’ll not just be able to see the layout; you will exist as a presence within the Tank’s memory itself.” Silence passed between Irmo and Manwë._  

_“...And that helps us...how?” Manwë asked again, not following. Irmo groaned._

_“It’s my supposition,” he began, resisting the urge to find hand puppets, “that whatever is causing so much damage in the system is electrical in nature; like a power surge blowing out your fuses. I don’t know where it’s come from, but I think I know how to stop it...but it’s not going to be pretty.”_

_Manwë nodded grimly. “How do I destroy it?”_

_“You don’t,” Irmo said, thrusting the helmet into Manwë’s hands. “You’re bait.”_

A fork of lightning flashed silently before Manwë’s eyes, illuminating the tower in a momentary blue glow before a deafening peal of thunder made him flinch. The cold hit him like a tidal wave as he realised he was soaked through, toe-deep in freezing rain. Pushing sodden hair from his eyes, he removed a metal panel from the floor, pressing the glowing yellow button behind it. A forcefield slowly crept up from the crenellations to form a golden dome which sizzled as rain lashed it. As the drips ceased and the sound of the storm died away to a muffled grumble, Manwë exhaled shakily, letting warmth return to his limbs.

 _Still human_ , he told himself as he made the long climb down the tower. _Still all too human._

* * *

The scene was carnage. Bones piled high amid lumps of discarded flesh, and red stains spread as far the eye could see. The Valar shared haunted looks, breath catching in their throats, each of them too horrified to speak.

“They’re eggs,” Oromë mumbled through a mouthful of food as Finwë held one up inquisitively. “Eggs,” he repeated, having swallowed. “They’re...they’re made by what that is,” he explained, pointing to the carcass of a whole roast chicken. “Was,” he corrected himself as he took another bite of bread. Finwë turned the boiled egg over in his hands and raised it appreciatively to his hosts, who smiled wanly, before wincing as he bit it in half, shell and all.

“Crunchy,” he commented.

The appetites of his compatriots were no less adventurous. Faced with a glut of delicacies, the Eldar had piled in with gusto, stuffing their mouths with handful upon handful of food; from chicken to oysters and from suckling piglet to langoustines, eaten heads and all, within a few short minutes the five delicate, otherworldly creatures - and Oromë - had demolished enough food to feed twenty. The dark furs they all wore were matted with half-chewed food like a predator’s muzzle, while opposite them the Valar, resplendent in their elaborate costumes, left their china and cutlery pristine and untouched.

“Where do they put it all?” Varda wondered out loud.

“Their metabolic rates must be...astonishing,” Irmo whispered, craning his neck to appreciate the slenderness of their guests. “They must burn through calories like no-one’s business.”

“No, thank you,” Nienna said to Elwë, offering her a glass of gravy. “I’m...really not hungry.” Elwë smiled and took a long draught. “Not anymore,” Nienna muttered to herself.

“This is how they’d eat out in the field,” Oromë said, shuffling his chair away from the Eldar to speak confidentially with his colleagues. “Not a bit of food was wasted. Nose to tail, if it wasn’t bone, it got eaten, and quick. I never thought they’d be able to pack it away like this, though, my stars!” He laughed, a strange pride overcoming him.

“Oromë, when do you think they’ll be finished?” Estë asked impatiently. “We’d really like to get the examinations started soon. Plus, I...well, frankly, I’m starting to feel ill just watching them.”

Oromë belched loudly, wiped his mouth with his beard, and nodded. A few words in Quenya were all he needed to convince the Eldar to push their plates away and get down to business.

“Oromë tells us that you would like to study us,” Ingwë began as servers began the laborious task of disposing of the Eldar’s remnants. “What would this involve?”

“Well,” Varda began, stretching in her seat to see Ingwë’s face over the piles of plates being cleared from around him, “we were thinking a combination of physical, psychological and cultural assessments, to really get a grounding of who you are as a people.”

Oromë clicked his tongue and leaned in close to Varda. “Not sure a lot of those words exist in Quenya yet,” he advised her. The confused looks passing between their guests seemed to confirm his supposition. “You may need to be a bit more...direct.”

Varda cleared her throat. “We want you to talk to Nienna,” she began again, gesturing to her friend, “about your lives. How you live, how you hunt, how you play.” The Eldar nodded in understanding. “And we’d also like Irmo to examine your bodies, to see if you’re different from us.”

This suggestion, which Varda had considered may be the case, was met with some reservation. Low murmurs passed between the group. “You ask us to put our very selves in your hands,” Ingwë replied. “What guarantee do we have that we will not be harmed?”

“I guarantee it, Ingwë,” Oromë interjected immediately. “Upon our friendship.”

“That is appreciated, Oromë,” Ingwë thanked him, “but who will be doing the deed?”

“I will,” Irmo announced, “and my wife. I’m Irmo, she’s Estë.”

Ingwë nodded. “Why?” He asked pointedly.

“Well, because we’re interested,” Irmo replied with a chuckle. “Neither of us knew the other existed until recently; we’d like to know if we’re somehow related. We-we could be family,” he offered.

“Why you?” Finwë’s wife, a fiery-eyed Elda woman called Míriel, interjected. “What makes you the one to do this?”

“Well...I’m a doctor,” Irmo replied, almost bashfully. Quizzical looks passed around the Eldar once more.

“A...what?” Elwë asked.

“A doctor, a...a healer,” Irmo explained. “You know, someone who helps the sick and the injured.” The Eldar conferred over this information for a short time.

“We have no such thing,” Ingwë replied at last.

“Well,” Varda said, as surprised as any of the Valar at the revelation, “we’re already learning things about each other.”

Discussions went on for some time, with Oromë explaining some of the finer points of Ain society and culture to the Eldar to try and give the Valar’s requests some context. True to his assertion, the Eldar were quick studies and soon grasped what the Valar expected of them. Swayed by Oromë’s pledge, Ingwë gave the Valar permission to study them.

“And in return,” Ingwë asked upon conclusion of the conversation, “you will help us look for our missing kin?”

“And all the eggs you can eat,” Oromë quipped. Laughter rang around the table as Valar and Eldar alike rose from their seats and set to work.

* * *

 “Fire,” Manwë ordered as he closed his bedroom door behind him with an echoing thud. An electronic chirp acknowledged his command, and a roaring fire sprang to life in the grate opposite the bed. As he stood before it, he closed his eyes and discarded his clothes in a flash of light. The water with which they were soaked, however, was very real, and fell over his skin and onto the floor in a torrent. Manwë jumped from foot to foot over the grey and sodden carpet, shaking his long hair out like a dog and growling in frustration. Bundling the quilt and sheets from his bed over the water stains, he sat down grumpily and stared into the fire, letting its heat lick the moisture from his skin and its flickering send him back to his reverie.

_Manwë took the helmet from Irmo slowly, convinced he must have misheard._

_“...Bait?”_

_“In a manner of speaking,” Irmo replied, immediately heading back to his station. “You’ll want the gloves too,” he called back as the technicians handed Manwë a pair of heavy, wired gloves._

_“Irmo, you’re going to need to start making sense soon, or I’m going to get cold feet,” Manwë flustered, juggling the three unwieldy components._

_“Ugh,” Irmo moaned like a frustrated schoolgirl, spinning in his chair to face his imbecilic commander. “Look. It’s an electrical charge, right? It’s looking for the route of least resistance in order to ground itself, because that’s just what electricity_ **_does_ ** _. Unfortunately, there isn’t anywhere for it to ground itself inside the Tank; it’s trapped in a circuit, albeit it a circuit that was never designed to contain something that powerful. It’s...it’s a bull in a china shop,” he babbled. “It’s not getting out of there on its own, but it’s not going to appreciate the help, either.”_

_“And that’s where I come in?” Manwë asked, hoping he was on the right track._

_“Yes,” Irmo sighed heavily. “With a physical presence inside the Tank which leads to the outside world, you’re going to look like exactly what it wants; a ground. But we can’t let that actually happen, because it’ll just kill you and then move back to wrecking the place.”_

_“So, what do I do?” Manwë asked, resigned to Irmo’s madness._

_“You have to steer it into this section,” Irmo explained, pointing to a spur on a giant display of the layout of the Tank. “Once it’s there, I can reverse the magnetrons on the stem to keep it trapped there indefinitely.”_

_“How do I...steer it?” Manwë asked, pulling the gloves on with help from a technician. They were even heavier to wear than they were to hold._

_“Simple,” Irmo replied. “You run. You run, climb, leap, swing, do whatever you have to do. Lead it on a merry chase, just make sure you get it into that section.”_

_“You said people will still die,” Manwë asked. “Why? How?”_

_Irmo’s chest swelled. “In trying to get to you, it’s going to have to go through some systems it hasn’t touched yet. Systems which still support pods. I don’t know who, or how many, but...we can’t come out of this unscathed.”_

_Manwë breathed deeply, avoiding eye contact. “Is this-”_

_“I wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t,” Irmo finished for him. “I can’t tell you what you’ll see, or what you’ll experience in there, or if you’ll even remember it. In all honesty, the brain was never meant for what you’re about to go through. We’re only supposed to live in one world at a time.” Manwë nodded and put the helmet on. Irmo tenderly strapped it beneath his chin and gave the wiring one last check. “Good luck, Sir.”_

_“Luck is for losers,” Manwë mumbled unconvincingly._

_“You’re going in in five, four, three, two, one-”_

**_I love you, she said._ **

_“Engage!”_

_The real world disappeared, and Manwë ceased to exist._


End file.
